


A Sweet Poison

by emmiemac



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character death (multiple), Consensual Underage Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, Post - A Clash of Kings, Profanity, Threats of sexual violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-04-10 12:24:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 71
Words: 184,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4391771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmiemac/pseuds/emmiemac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back in the North, Sansa is married to Robb's fiercest bannerman. But misunderstanding and loneliness leave Sansa feeling that she has been abandoned by her family and is unloved by her new husband. Sansa will make fateful mistakes before she comes to understand her new life, her new husband and, most importantly, herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: This story is entirely based on characters and plots from George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire**

 

A SWEET POISON

_“Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.”_

Cersei, to Sansa Stark - ACOK

 

Sansa’s heart pounded with excitement as she backed herself up against the wall of the tower room over-looking the vastness of the North.

She loved this tower room, loved the way the sun sometimes slanted in through the arrow slits  and how the breezes blew in from the meadows and rills surrounding the keep and around the room to stir her long hair and ruffle her skirts and cool their bodies when they…

She held a hand out to him, to beckon him to come to her.

“My lady needs attending, I see,” he grinned bright and warm; his eyes, wicked and tender, locked on hers.

“Always,” she assured him gently.

He grunted his approval and roughly drew her to him with both arms around her. He slid down the length of her slim body until his lips were at the tops of her breasts above the neckline of her gown. He pressed hot kisses to her skin as one great big hand slid up to squeeze one breast and push it up to his mouth. He groaned in frustration.

“Damn your pretty gowns, my lady, and damn the maid who laces you into your smallclothes,” he panted. “If I could chase them all from this keep, I’d have you walk about naked for my pleasure.”

Sansa laughed deep in her throat. “You could unlace me…as you so often have,” she murmured her invitation.

“I’ve not the patience, my lady; not even to feast at your sweet teats before having you. Never mind,” he winked up at her, “for I know a secret passageway.”

She had already begun to draw up her skirts and underskirts when he scrambled under her gown and snatched at her smallclothes with one hand as he pulled the drawstring with the other. He half-pulled them down before they slid to the worn wood floor and she daintily stepped out of them.

“Always the gentle lady,” he breathed huskily as he pressed himself into her and she felt the hard stones of the wall against the bones of her back.

“Sweet teats,” he repeated hoarsely as he gazed down her body from under hooded eyes at her breasts now pushed up against his chest in its leather jerkin. They rose and fell with every heavy breath she drew. She felt his warm rough hands slide under her smooth bottom now. “Up with you, my lady.”

She threw her arms around his neck and hopped up as he lifted her to him. She locked her slender ankles together just over his backside and let her head fall back as he dragged his lips and tongue over her long white throat. She could feel him fumbling at the laces of his breeches.

She loved when he took her like this: when he lifted her by the backs of her thighs and spread her legs open for him so he could lower her onto his hard member and fill the aching wetness of herself with his own throbbing need.

“Ah!” She gasped in ecstasy to have him inside her. He filled her so completely and made her feel warm and wet and wanton.

“Gods, my lady,” he groaned through clenched teeth, “how you want me.”

“Yes, yes,” she sighed desperately, “I want you: take me, take me…make me yours.”

He rolled his hips up to meet her body, pushing deeper than he had when he entered her. The fingers of his rough, strong hands dug deeper into the pale, soft flesh of her thighs. Once, twice, three times he pushed into her slow and deep as she panted and clung to him. Her own long fingers sank into the fur collar of his cloak and curled languidly.

Gods he was strong. She loved to feel the powerful thrust of his body into hers, loved to smell his skin in her nostrils. He smelled musky and earthy, of sweat and horses and warm sun and forest pines. Her head spun from pleasure and she gave a shivery moan from between parted lips.

“My lady’s ready now,” he panted, his tone almost threatening. Then came the onslaught.

He pressed her harder into the wall so he would no longer needs hold her from beneath. He grabbed her wrists from around his neck and raised her arms over her head and held her there as his movement hitched and he began bucking his hips in a steady rhythm, his thrusts sharper and harder now. Her excitement became nigh unbearable; she thought she might scream.

“Oh…oh my- I-.” She cried out as she peaked and her whole body shuddered and she felt the rushing warmth flush her skin from her hairline down to her breasts. Her toes curled in her doeskin boots and she her insides tightened and fluttered around his iron-hard member. She sighed contentedly.

“Oh, no, my lady…I’ve not done with you yet. I’ll have my pleasure now,” he muttered tightly.

He pulled out of her suddenly and her feet dropped to the floor. He grabbed her around her waist and, with a harsh twist, he turned her away from him and face to the wall. He once again took her by her wrists and placed her palms flat against the grey stones. He snatched at her skirts from behind, pulling them up over her bottom and groping her behind, spreading her cheeks to enter her again. He closed his strong hands over her hips and thrust hard and deep with a sharp grunt. He kept grunting with every thrust into her as he gripped her hips tighter and pulled her body back to him, filling her again and again. The smack of his skin against hers made loud slapping sounds. Her insides were still receptive: warm and slick and throbbing from her release. She scratched and scrambled at the stone wall with her fingernails, trying desperately to hang on something solid in the wake of his relentless possession of her body.

“Gods, my lady…my beautiful lady...”

His groan of release seemed deafening though she knew he was muffling this cry. She felt the powerful spurt of his seed filling her with every hot throb of his manhood; it filled her deep and seemed to claim her as _his_. He gave one final jerk of his body and subsided, though his fingers still dug into her in a merciless grip. He leaned forward and slid his hands up now to cup her breasts from behind and to press a kiss into her shoulder near the back of her neck. She felt his hot breath blow over her skin there.

“Have I hurt you, my lady?” he whispered. He rested his chin over her shoulder and rubbed his beard against her cheek. She turned her cheek away as she shook her head.

“No,” she whispered softly, sadly, “you were wonderful. You _are_ wonderful.”

She straightened now and he turned her back to him, leaning in to kiss her mouth; but she stopped him with a finger to his lips.

“You should go now,” she advised him softly.

He sighed through his nose but obeyed without protest. He even bowed slightly.

“My lady,” he murmured again. He looked once more into her eyes and turned to leave the tower.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, it's not Sandor. Sorry.


	2. Chapter 2

“My lady.”

“My lady.”

Servants and soldiers greeted and bowed their heads to her as she walked the halls of the keep back to her chamber. Once she arrived, she closed and barred the door behind her and collapsed against the heavy oak boards before sliding down to the floor in an exhausted crouch. A sob threatened to rack her chest and escape her throat but she stilled it quickly.

 _None of that, my lady,_ she told herself sternly. She rose now and crossed to her washbasin where she snatched up a linen and submerged it into the water with both hands.

“My lady,” she repeated scornfully, and wrung the linen out with all her strength.

 _My lady_ , he always called her, even when they were alone together. He never called her Sansa; his father called her Sansa, as was his right.

His father was her husband; and she was not _his_ lady, but his father’s. The Lady Umber of Last Hearth.

Lifting her skirts, she reached up to wash herself. She pressed the cool towel to her tender folds to calm her ache and to clean away the sticky seed from her body. She rubbed herself briskly and sunk the linen back in the water again and left it there so that his seed would not dry and stiffen the fabric. Her maid could make what she wanted of her carelessness. She withdrew her smallclothes from the pocket of her gown and stepped back into them, tying the drawstring in a perfect bow.

Her husband may want her tonight. He usually did when he returned to the castle from a journey. She has become careless indeed, risking propriety for her own selfish desire.

Sansa sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. _Her marriage bed_.She wrung her hands together as she looked about the chamber, _their_ chamber, and wondered how her life had come to this.

 _So quickly,_ it seemed. No sooner had Lord Renly defeated his brother Stannis in the field than he had stormed the walls of Kings Landing with his army and freed her from her nightmare of captivity. He had even gallantly presented her with Joffrey’s head.

“A gift for you, Lady Sansa, to take to your lady mother. I am sending you home to Winterfell. You are now a princess of the North,” he had sounded in the throne room as she bent the knee to him in gratitude. King Renly Baratheon had let her brother keep his title of King in the North when Robb had defeated Lord Tywin and moved to capture Casterly Rock. The castle, the lands and its gold mines were now the property of the crown of the Kingdom of Westeros; the North belonged to the Northerners, and was to be ruled by the Stark kings again. They had lost their father but gained a kingdom.

But her joy at being reunited with her remaining family had been short-lived. Her brother Robb was king now, and with a grim and commanding countenance, he told her that it was her duty to wed one of his loyal bannermen; and none was more loyal than Lord Umber, the Greatjon, who had first declared him King in the North.

Sansa was so accustomed to her armor of cool courtesy and unthinking obedience that she had merely lowered her head and murmured: “My king.” But in her chamber she shook and wept: was she still nothing but a pawn, even to her own family? Her mother had tried to comfort her:

“Sansa, I know Lord Umber is not the man you dreamed of, but surely you cannot have forgotten how the prince of your dreams turned out? Lord Umber is kind, and a Northerner. He loved his first wife and treated her well; he’ll be the same with you, my darling girl, for how could he not love you?”

Sansa lifted tear-filled eyes to her. She knew that even her lady mother found the Greatjon overwhelming in size and in his nature. She had heard her say as much to her father once before Lord Umber had arrived with his sons as their guests at a harvest feast; and now she expected her to be his wife.

“Your brother is a king now,” she continued firmly, “and has a king’s responsibilities. He married where he was promised, and so once did I; and now you must do the same.”

Robb had promised to marry one of Walder Frey’s daughters in exchange for his fealty and his armies. He had kept his word and had brought the girl back to Winterfell. Roslin was pretty and demure and devoted to Robb. But Robb had selected a girl from a Westerman’s family to be one of his queen’s ladies, a prettier girl named Jeyne Westerling, and many secretly suspected that she was the one Robb truly loved.

Soon after her return North, Sansa had journeyed to Last Heart and wed the Greatjon in their godswood. After the feast, the huge old warrior had scooped her up and carried her to their chambers in his arms. She had cried afterward, and apologized for crying, and then cried even harder. The old man had patted her head like a child and told her that their bedding had been necessary to legitimize the marriage, but now she would have her own chamber and he would wait. But it was too late: Sansa missed her next moonsblood and exactly nine moons to the day of her wedding she bore Lord Umber another strapping son.

“You are mother to his child now, Sansa,” her mother told her gently after the birth which she had attended with the maester and a mountain midwife, “and so you can be a wife to him again. Did he…did he not treat you kindly?”

Sansa nodded over her child’s sleeping head but did not meet her mother’s eyes. “He-he was gentle; or at least he tried to be.” Lord Umber was as tall as Hodor and twice as wide.

 “Then you know what you must do,” Lady Catelyn replied simply. So when the maester declared her sufficiently healed, Sansa handed her son over to the wet nurse, donned her prettiest embroidered bedgown under a fur robe with her hair loose down her back and walked the torch-lit hallway to her husband’s bedchamber. The next morning the servants moved her wardrobe and dressing table into his chamber and from that night they shared a marriage bed as man and wife.

The Greatjon was kind and gentle with her. Though he blustered and shouted at soldiers and servants and even his own grown sons, he never raised his voice to Sansa. He smiled with his whole face when he saw her, and she dutifully smiled back for him. He brought her gifts from his journeys: a silver cuff from White Harbor, velvet ribbons from a merchant in Deepwood Motte, a carved direwolf from a visit to one of the mountain clans. He loved their son, naming him Eddard after her father and teasing her about the red cast to his hair. He tickled the boy until he wet himself, and showed him sleight of hand tricks with coins that he let him keep and he put his first wooden sword into his son’s hands himself one night in the solar as Sansa held their newborn daughter by the hearth fire.

Her children were her husband’s; of that there was no question for they could not have been anyone else’s then. She had wanted to be dutiful and honorable, as befit a Stark lady and a sister of the Young Wolf. She had even told herself that she must be happy, for she had no reason not to be.

She was a good wife and mother and Lady of Last Hearth. She had been raised for this, and she did it well: the Greatjon beamed with pride at her when they welcomed noble guests to their hall and when she sat at his side during audiences for the commons, for those who came all wanted to see the beautiful sister of the King in the North. He often prompted her to sing for him and others and though she blushed, she always obliged him graciously. But he was of an age or even older than her own father, and she felt his affection for her was like that of a father to his daughter; unless they were abed together. Her own affections never surpassed respect, and gratitude for his protection and his kindness to her and their children and for his fierce fealty to Robb.

 It was Lord Jon, the Smalljon, who seemed to notice her quiet withdrawal into herself, though she did all that was expected of her. Mayhaps because he was of an age with her brother Robb he sympathized that she was wed to a man of  his father’s age. She blushed harder the first time she saw him staring at her, certain that he knew her secret; and she jumbled the words to _Florian and Jonquil_ , to her husband’s delight, and he laughed hugely.

“Even when my Sansa does it wrong, she does it better than anyone else,” he crowed. “Is that not right, Smalljon?”

“It is, father,” he had replied, his eyes warm on hers. Bewildered, she looked away as she thanked him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it is the Umbers. Sorry if that is not exciting to sansan shippers, but I was inspired by a great fic titled "Further North" by SecondStarOnTheLeft. When I was writing the first chapter I thought readers would be disappointed to discover that the man was not Sandor, but then I thought: "What if he were not her husband?"


	3. Chapter 3

Lord Umber was very much still a proud warrior and lord of his keep and lands. He rode out and travelled frequently to hear complaints and settle disputes of his commons who could not come to him in his hall, and he patrolled his lands with his own garrison. The Smalljon never rode out together with him anymore: since the war, one always stayed at Last Hearth to rule as lord of the keep. There were more wildlings fleeing South it seemed, and they would not risk the deaths of both the current lord and his heir, at least not together; so when one returned the other then left. Little or nothing frightened an Umber of Last Hearth but the line of succession mattered to a great house and so they have conceded to this one precaution.

Her two near-successive pregnancies meant that Sansa rarely rode out with her lord husband either. She wished sadly for her direwolf Lady, certain that if she had her company she would not feel so very alone and unhappy. Instead she remained at Last Hearth with the children of his first marriage. She sat and sewed with his daughters until they soon left home: one to be wed and the younger to join her sister’s household; and so Sansa sewed alone in her chamber or in the solar, often taking her meals alone as well. Her good-sons were kind to her but more interested in sparring and riding and rarely sat with her; but when they did, she had become more conscious of her eldest good-son’s stare, and though he sometimes looked away when she caught him, he always resumed staring.

She was visiting her children in their nursery one afternoon when he joined them unexpectedly. He was good to her children and her son adored his big brother and held his arms out to him to be picked up.

“Smaw-jah,” the boy gushed happily. The Smalljon picked up young Eddard and swung him around with a hearty laugh. He sat him across his hip and then bowed his head to Sansa.

“My lady,” he began, “he is the image of an Umber but he has your hair.”

She blushed slightly. “Your father says so as well; he told me that the wildlings say that those with red hair are ‘kissed by fire’.”

“I have heard the same,” he replied, looking at her steadily. She dropped her eyes. ”My lady, I fear you have been much confined since you have been at Last Hearth, and it has made you melancholy-“

“You are too kind, Lord Jon,” she replied quickly and politely, without meeting his eyes. “Please be assured that I am perfectly well.”

“Forgive me then, my lady. Still, you have not seen all of the castle and its surrounds, and we will soon be snowed in for a long winter…or so say the maesters. If you would care to join me, it would please me to show you more of your home.”

Perhaps it was the mention of Last Hearth as her home and the long winter to come that made her yearn for company, but she agreed and the next day rode out to the south through the forest and along the Last River with the Smalljon and a retinue of guardsmen. He told her his father would not forgive him for taking her outside the walls without proper protection. On their ride, he recounted to her some of the history of House Umber including how the Umbers and Starks had defeated Raymun Redbeard, a King-beyond-the-Wall. He told her stories of ice fishing on the river with his father, and campaign stories from his time as part of Robb’s personal guard.  Over the next days he took her to remote parts of the castle, and up to the walls to look out at the Umber lands. Finally, after guards and retainers slipped away one by one to other duties, he stopped on the north wall that looked out towards the Gift and the Wall beyond and stared out contentedly.

“Forgive me for staring so long, my lady, but I love these lands. I expect they seem very barren and isolated to you, coming from Winterfell; but I think they are beautiful, and I love to look at beauty,” he turned to her now.

Sansa paused, uncertain of how she should answer. “Of course, Lord Jon; that is understandable,” she managed to say. “This is your home.”

“This is your home as well now, my lady; but it does not make you happy.”

 _He knows._ “I- I- I was a very long time away from my family, Lord Jon, and I missed them very much. I only wish that I could have spent more time with them when I returned North.”

Now he paused before replying to her. “Of course, my lady; that is understandable.” Then he held out his hand to her. “May I show you the north tower?”

She took his hand and followed into the tower and down the winding stairs to an empty room.

“The north tower is empty. It is coldest in winter, and so is kept only for stores, though they have never filled to the top rooms. But when I am lord, I shall make use of this room someday, if only to come and look out towards the far North.” He led her to a narrow window, more of an arrow slit, and she stood beside him and looked out at the endless stretch of what seemed to her to be a vast emptiness.

“It is lovely,” she said dutifully.

He sighed. “My lady…I wish that you were happy.”

Sansa turned to him to protest but when she met his eyes and saw his kindness she felt suddenly weary, weary of courtesy and of pretending and of lying. _I thought I was done with pretending_ , she thinks now and something inside her breaks and she feels like a girl and not a lady.

“I- I wish I were happy too,” she answers and her voice is hoarse and whispery. She catches her breath to realize what she has said and turns sharply away from him but he stops her by her arm and pulls her to him and she begins to cry. “Forgive me,” she says as she tries to compose herself and she looks up at him to see what damage she has caused to herself for speaking honestly. But instead of scorn and insult, he looks tenderly on her and before she is aware he is kissing her softly, just brushing his lips on hers but when she does not resist he takes her in his arms and kisses her deeply. She weakens into his kiss and returns it before she breaks away and pushes herself from him in horror.

“We mustn’t,” she breathes.

He looks stricken. “I know,” is all he replies but still he holds out the arms that held her. She realizes that she wants to be back in those arms.

Sansa turns and stumbles to the door and flees as quickly as she can.

More days pass and her husband has still not returned. He has sent a raven to announce that he has been delayed but does not say why. Sansa paces restlessly in her chamber, fearful of venturing out where she can be seen and certain that anyone looking at her will know her failure as a lady. She has her children brought to her and she loves her children so very much: her little auburn-haired son who will not part with his wooden sword even in his sleep and her tawny-haired baby girl who smiles so sweetly when Sansa sings, and so she only reluctantly lets the nurse take them away for naps. She cannot concentrate to sew, or read, or practice her harp. Every time she picks it up, she wants to dash it against the wall. She leaves to find the maester and ask for some potion to help her sleep but instead she finds herself at the bottom of the winding stairs of the north tower staring up past all the storerooms to the door of the top closed room.

Tentatively, silently, she creeps her way up the stairs and into the room. She is unsure if she is disappointed or relieved that he is not there. _It is an empty tower room, stupid girl; why should he be here?_ She gazes out the window where she had stood with him and feels an emptiness she has not known since her days in the Red Keep. _Even then I had hope; now I am a prisoner of my own making for wanting what I cannot possibly ever have._

She turns forlornly to leave and he is there, in the doorway watching her with a disbelieving surprise. Sansa wrings her hands helplessly and can offer no explanation.

“I…I-“

“I could not stay away either…my lady.”

She takes one fateful step towards him and he closes the distance between them before she can take another. She is in his arms and he is kissing her hungrily as she kisses him back. He starts to plant sweet kisses on her forehead, her eyelids and down her neck and she trembles and her eyes fill with tears.

“No,” she sobs quietly even as she clings to his arms around her.

“I know,” he murmurs, and still he kisses her and she kisses him back.  Her heart is beating so hard she thinks it may burst and she cannot feel her knees; she fears if he lets go of her that she will sink to the floor and simply die.

The sound of cries and shouts and of the gate opening and the pounding of hooves can be heard in the north tower and he lets her go. She looks up at him questioningly and he only nods.

“Go now, my lady.”

She goes. Sansa runs around the long way through the castle hallways until she reaches the great hall and then walks with measured steps out into the yard to see the Greatjon clad in his heavy furs and looking over his massive shoulder up to the keep. She fears that he has seen them but the tower room is on the north side and not visible from the yard and so-

“My lord,” she calls in greeting and she curtseys when he sees her.  He is standing with his son, who has taken a quicker route to the yard, and she is struck to see them together now: so alike and yet so very different, she knows.

“Forgive me,” she tells him, “I was abed-“ She stops short and tries to think quickly. _Had anyone seen her leave her chamber? Would she be caught lying?_

He smiles delightedly, his eyes above his beard in his ruddy face twinkle brightly. “Now, now, there is nothing to forgive, Sansa; we were not even certain that we would arrive home this day.” He hugs her with his huge arms and the weapons he is wearing jingle and clank when he releases her. “Besides, abed is how I like to think of you best,” he growls near her ear.

She forces herself to ignore that the Smalljon is near and smiles dutifully. “Yes, my lord.”


	4. Chapter 4

“…more and more of them. Nearly a dozen attacks in this last moon’s turn alone…”

“These are not raids; the wildlings are not stealing and heading back behind the wall but trying to head further south.”

“…but why should they and what is it they seek there: that is what we should be asking ourselves if we are to stop…”

Sansa sits beside her husband in the great hall as they feast his return and she is grateful for a reason to wear a pretty gown and put up her hair at the crown and let it cascade down her back in a shiny fall and she feels equal parts happiness for looking beautiful and shame for wanting another man to look at her. Except that he is not looking at her but discussing the wildlings with his father and great-uncles. The fearsome men had frightened her when she first came to Last Hearth but they have treated her respectfully as their lady though they clearly see her as naught but a pretty bedmate and provider of excess heirs for Lord Umber. They neither of them have wives of their own, but they can see that she has made them a prestigious alliance with now royal House Stark. After their meal, she sits and steals glances as the younger Lord Jon wanders the hall with a horn of ale in his hand and makes merry jests with the soldiers of the garrison and the castle’s workmen.  Sansa feel foolish and she fidgets with the heavy garnet pendant the Greatjon has gifted her this time.

“Is it to your liking, Sansa?” he asks her now, his booming voice breaking into her thoughts.

“It is very fine, my lord. You are too generous to me and I am ever grateful.” She places her hand gently over his on the wooden table and smiles for him as she knows she will again when he reaches for her in their bed this night. When she looks up again, the Smalljon is watching.

The next morning after she has taken her bath and knowing that her husband is training in the yard with his garrison, she once again creeps to the tower room and this time he is waiting for her. There is a wooden chair now and a large crate and a shearling rug at his feet. He is bent over in the chair with his head in his large hands. He is his father’s son: tall and broad and strong and bearded though is hair is a tawny brown and not grey and he wears leathers with just a fur at his collar and he only has lines around his eyes, lines from squinting at the sun and at the glare off of fallen snow for many years, she knows; she is Northerner too. _Why could it not have been him? He served Robb as well-_

 “I cannot give you gifts, my lady,” he tells her sadly, “even though I would like to.”

She walks over to him and stands clutching her hands together. “You care for my happiness, Lord Jon: that is your gift to me,” she tells him softly. Without thinking she reaches a hand to his shiny head of brown hair but he catches her wrist before she touches him and he pulls her down into his lap.

“No,” he confesses in an anguished voice, “I want my own happiness as well. I want _you_ , my lady: don’t you see?”

She does see. Why else would she have dressed so that he would look at her? Why else would she have come here? She knows that she should not want this but she cannot remember the last time she wanted something just for herself and for her own happiness and not to please someone else. And so she leans in and kisses him tenderly and lingers close so that he can kiss her like he did the first time.

Lord Jon takes her face in his hands and kisses her back; he kisses her deeply and fills her mouth with his tongue and her lungs with his breath and she sighs dreamily. He runs his large hands over the bodice of her gown and when she presses herself into his palms, he reaches around and begins to loosen the laces of her gown. Sansa feels the cool air blowing through the tower room on her skin when he draws her dress down from her shoulders and bends his head to kiss her naked breasts. She sinks her fingers into his tawny hair and writhes in his lap as he tongues her nipples and caresses her skin. She boldly let her other hand slide from his chest down between his legs and caresses in turn the hardness of his member through the rough wool of his breeches and he reacts by groaning and sucking fiercely on her nipple, making her moan and arch her back. She cannot seem to get close enough to him, to feel him as she wishes to and so she turns to him and presses her body into his and drags her leg over his lap to straddle him with her gown raised indecently and he shoves his hands under her skirts and presses his forehead into hers as he pants and waits for her to act next.

Sansa’s lip trembles as she speaks: “Yes,” she breathes.

With that word, he tears her smallclothes from her body and cups a warm hand over her sex before sinking his fingers between her swollen folds. Sansa clutches his shoulders and lets her head drop back as he frees himself from his breeches and thrusts up into her. She cries out though there is no pain and he clutches at her waist and her hip and grinds her into him as he growls through clenched teeth and pants like a hunting dog at the chase. Her toes barely graze the wood floor but she rides him harder than the elegant grey mare she has been given as her mount in Last Hearth. Their first coupling is quick and rough and fiery, and she finally knows true passion and the pleasures of her own body, and his.

When he is done, he throws her down on the shearling rug and falls on top of her. He pushes open her legs and holds them that way as he takes her again, his body working at hers with a boundless strength and ferocity as though he were the savage giant of his own house sigil, broken free of his chains. He groans when he reaches his completion but he stays inside of her and rocks his hips gently and slowly and her want begins to build again, differently this time. A hot tension strains her insides and makes her stretch out her limbs and rock herself together with him and he is soon hard again and he starts to glide in and out of her slowly and deeply, holding himself inside her before drawing back and rearing over her again and again and Sansa gasps and whimpers and her breath catches and she is more alive than she has ever felt before.

“That’s it, that’s your pleasure peaking, my lady,” he whispers huskily. “Show me that you love this, that you love me inside you…now, now, yes, _now_.”

Sansa arches and keens long and breathlessly, a burst of heat and a tingling courses through her body and then she is weak and helpless and near tears but she is happy somehow and laughs deep in her throat as he thrusts and holds and spends himself inside her and settles on her heavily and closes his eyes like a man at prayer.

She goes every morning now to the tower and sometimes he is there but more often he is not; the Smalljon must also train with the garrison or leave on patrol or to hear petitions from commons living across the river in the Lonely Hills or further away along the shore of the Bay of Seals. When she is alone, she lies on the shearling rug and dreams of him taking her like the passionate lover he is. She feels like a lady in a song: a sad and lonely lady with a secret love who will rescue her from her unhappy fate.

Then within a fortnight of his last departure, she misses her moonsblood again and she does not know whether to weep for joy or for shame because now she is no longer a lady in a song with a secret lover but an adulteress who has dishonoured herself and her husband and may be carrying a bastard fathered by his own son and heir, but she wishes fervently that it is his child, his son, because she loves him still and wants to be carrying his seed inside her, his seed that he has spent inside her again and again when they are in their tower.

 “Sansa?”

She turns her head from the roaring hearth fire in the solar now to look at her husband. He is waiting expectantly and she realizes, as does he, that she has not been listening to him.

“Pray forgive me, my lord-“

“Do I truly have reason to forgive you, Sansa? Is there something you needs tell me?” he questions, and she cannot keep the startled expression off her face because she is suddenly convinced that she has been found out but he chuckles and his eyes twinkle and he takes one of her slender hands in his huge paw, the one with the missing fingers bitten off by Grey Wind. “Every time you have behaved so distractedly, you have been in a family way; tell me now,” he drops his booming voice confidentially though they are alone this night, “are you with child again?”

She gives a small nod and feels her cheeks turn hot. “I believe so, my lord.”

The Greatjon brings her hand to his lips now and kisses it and she feels the whiskers of his beard against her fingers. “You make this old warrior very happy, Sansa.”

She looks at him, at his happy smile and his kind eyes and his greying beard and hair and dressed in his shaggy furs and she knows that she is a dreadful and deceitful and ungrateful woman who loves his son instead of him.

She swallows hard and answers in a hoarse whisper: “Thank you, my lord.”

He still holds her hand in his when he stands and so she stands as well and leaves with him as they retire to their bedchamber because though she does not love him, she is his wife of nigh five years and the child may well be his because Sansa has never once denied her lord husband. She had never cried again after her wedding night.

She wishes that she could cry now.


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa has been sick every morning for a sennight. After voiding her stomach a second time, she cringes with humiliation as she looks up apologetically to her husband. The Greatjon scoffs gently.

“I’ve seen many  a drunken man heave his guts and countless dying men spew blood, Sansa; a woman with the morning sickness is no hardship to look upon.”

 He holds the basin in one great hand and smoothes her hair back from her brow with the other even as he loudly curses her maid for not having been in attendance and not being quick enough with a towel and fresh water for Lady Umber.

“I was asked to bring you word of Lord Jon, my lord,” the girl explains as she sets down a pitcher and clean basin and linens.

“Smalljon?” he booms, “Have the Others taken him?” He has been gone more than a moon’s turn as a guest at Karhold.

“He returned before dawn, my lord. They met with good hunting on their way back and so there is fresh meat for the larder and more to dry for winter stores.”

At the mention of fresh meat, Sansa’s stomach turns and she retches again. The Greatjon pats her head soothingly and shouts at the maid once more.

“If _I_ needs attend my lady, girl; _you_ ’ll needs train with the garrison! Now will you move your ass or swing a sword?”

Once she is certain that her nausea has passed, Sansa eats some fried bread and has her maid help her dress and braid her hair. She looks pale right now but it will pass by midday, she knows. _Let him see me at my best: it has been so long._ She speaks with her husband’s uncle, Mors, regarding the addition to the winter stores, and learns that none will be taken to the north tower today. She thanks him for his diligence as castellan and tells him how much she depends on him to manage the running of Last Hearth.

“Winter is coming, my lady,” he tells her archly, and she smiles gently and nods her agreement.

When she encounters the maester, he inquires after her morning sickness and reminds her that she only need be concerned if it worsens or does not pass. She reminds him that it has always passed before and he says he hopes for the same this time. Then he looks past her and bows his head and murmurs: “My lord.”

The Greatjon appears and furrows his greying brows in concern. “Sansa, are you well enough to attend the hall?” He is giving an audience for his commons and Sansa often attends as his lady.

“Mayhaps for a time,” she replies, “unless you think it will be taken as insult if I must retire to rest, my lord?”

“Come greet them with me, for they all love to see you,” he proclaims proudly, “then take your leave before we begin.” He steers her into the great hall by her elbow and she walks gracefully beside him. He greets each man heartily by name and Sansa smiles and nods and repeats their names when they murmur _milady_.  Some of their eyes go wide and even a few mouths fall open and whispers of _a beauty_ and _the king’s sister_ follow in her wake. One woman curtseys to her.

“May th’gods grant yer father rest, m’lady: ‘e was a good man; jus’ as th’King inna North,” she says humbly.

“You are very kind; I thank you,” Sansa tells her though her heart hurts to remember her father, and so she smiles at the small boy hiding behind her skirt. “And pray what is your name, young man?”

The boy takes his finger out of his mouth says: “Jon…m’lady.”

“That is a fine name; may you grow as big and strong as my lord.”

The little boy looks up at the Greatjon with awe and her husband laughs his booming laugh.

Sansa takes her leave as her husband takes the high seat and walks calmly towards her chamber as her heart pounds and her mouth turns dry. There are no servants in the hall and so she picks up her skirts and hurries toward the north tower. A few more furnishings have been added: another high-back chair, a trestle table meant for use as a writing desk with parchment for scrolls, quills and ink and an oil lamp. He has made the tower room a sanctuary for work but Sansa knows that the ink jar has never been unstoppered. Still, she runs her hand languidly across the surface and touches his belongings. She wants him to come soon: the audience may last some hours, and she will need time to gather the courage to tell him what she must.

“Don’t move.”

She stays where she is; she does not even turn her head but a smiles plays on her lips and her heart skips a beat, she has felt it. She has heard the huskiness in his voice and she knows the promise that it holds for her. His footsteps in his heavy boots approach her and her breathing is quick and shallow.

“I did not think it possible that you could be even more beautiful, my lady…and yet you are.”

When his hand caresses her cheek, she draws her breath sharply and closes her eyes. She turns her head now to press a kiss to the inside of his palm and she feels him take her around her waist and lift her to sit on the edge of the table. She opens her eyes now and he is right before her, his bearded face close to hers and his warm brown eyes are gazing at her with love and want.

“Lord Jon,” she sighs, “I missed you so.”

He hums and presses a finger to her full lower lip. “Open,” he commands gently and she obeys. She parts her lips and he slides a finger in and over her teeth and she wraps her tongue and mouth around it and sucks softly because he likes this, he has made her do it before and he stares lustfully at her face when she does. His eyelids grow heavy and he growls and tells her she has such a pretty pink mouth: soft and warm and wet like his favorite part and he looks down to her lap and Sansa raises her skirts for him and he takes his finger from her mouth and slips it into her smallclothes and inside of her and she cries out softly to feel his firm touch after so long.

“Oh gods,” she whimpers shakily, “I missed you, I dreamt of you, I wanted you.”

He tugs at her smallclothes and pants excitedly. “Show me then, my lady.”

She begins to unlace his breeches and he reaches behind her knees and lifts them up to open her to him and she grasps his buttocks and pushes him into her as he thrusts hard and deep. Sansa leans back on her elbows now and looks at him as he bucks his hips and begins to grope and stroke at her breasts through her new gown: a brown velvet bodice with the neckline cut wide to show off her smooth shoulders and a brown wool skirt open in front with red underskirts because these are his house colours, they are Umber colours and she is Lady Umber but the wrong Lady Umber and this is wrong, she knows, but it feels right, it feels good, yes, it is _so good_.

“So good,” she repeats breathily, and he brings her legs up to his shoulders and bends over her now and wraps his large hands around her creamy throat and strokes her skin with his thumbs. He quickens his rhythm now to a steady pump of his member into her body that makes her breath catch and gasp.

“I can never have you enough,” he tells her tightly between grunts. “I want you every way…naked and flushed and ready…” and he stifles a groan, long and drawn out, and Sansa writhes and arches and bite her lip to suppress her own desperate cry of release. The Smalljon lowers his head and licks long and hot up her length of her neck and wraps his arms around her and lifts her up with him. She smiles sweetly and then remembers her condition.

“Lord Jon…I-“ she begins.

He kisses her on her mouth and releases her. “Forgive me, my lady; though I hate to leave you, I must see to my duties,” he begins to lace up his breeches. “I have been away too long but I have news of your family that will please you. I will join you in the solar this evening.”

Sansa is disappointed: whatever it is that he will tell her is not private but for all to hear and what she needs to tell him is very private. But he is leaving and they cannot do so together so he takes the winding stairs up to the castle wall while she waits to descend back to her chamber. She washes quickly and loosens her gown and lays on the great bed and wonders fleetingly how it would be to share a bed with him but she stops herself because she knows this is something that she can never have and so she take another linen soaked in cool water and places it over her eyes to stop any tears and to lessen the pounding in her temples as she tries to devise how and when to tell him that she is pregnant. She does not want to think about the questions he is bound to ask her. She knows that he must ask because she has asked herself so many times and knows not the answer.

He joins the master-at-arms at his table for the evening meal but he is waiting in the solar when Sansa and the Greatjon join the family after seeing their children to bed with their nurse.

“Young Eddard wants to start his training, Smalljon: what say you? Shall we start your little brother already?”

The Smalljon does not smile. “Mayhaps that is best, he will have a head start before we needs train the next…for the maester informs me that there is another Umber on the way,” he tells them without warmth.

“Blast him! We would have told you ourselves: a welcome home gift to you! Soon my lady will give us a whole garrison of Umbers to train! Is that not right Sansa?”

Sansa swallows and hopes he is not blushing too hard. “The- the child may well be a girl, my lord,” she stammers.

“Another pretty girl or strong boy: what matter, so long as there are many more,” he enthuses. “We will fill the North with Umbers!”

The Smalljon raises his horn of ale to Sansa and his eyes on her are hard. “To your lady, Father.”

“Well, she didn’t do it all herself, boy,” the Greatjon replies slyly before exploding with laughter.

“No,” the Smalljon acknowledges flatly, “she did not.”


	6. Chapter 6

The heavy silence that follows Smalljon’s comment is evident only to Sansa since the uncles keep talking between themselves and the Greatjon accepts a large horn of ale from a servant before he sits with an audible sigh of comfort in his great chair facing the hearth and stretches his long legs out before him.

“Will you tell us of Karhold, Lord Jon?’ she asks him tentatively now though she can hardly bear to look at him, or have him look at her. “You were there some time.”

“There is news of your lady sister, my lady-“ he begins lightly.

“The marriage pact with the Freys is broken then?” the Greatjon interrupts.

“So it would seem, Father: Harrion expects the King to announce the betrothal of the younger daughter of House Stark to the heir of House Karstark.”

The Greatjon nods sagely but then rolls his eyes. “That will please Lord Rickard, no doubt, the ambitious old fart: he had wanted Robb for Alys when she was only a chit and he was only heir to Winterfell. Gods…this will make his son my good-brother; now I’ll have to be pleasant to that walking, talking bunghole. Begging your pardon, Sansa.”

“Of course, my lord. But how is it we have received no word? I have not even had a raven from my lady mother.” She is disappointed that her family does not involve her in family matters, nor ask her counsel. She feels quite awkward that her husband and good-son should know more of her family’s affairs than she does; it seems to her that she is hardly worth the alliance that she has brought them, for they had been Robb’s confidantes since the banners were called to make war in the South.

“The marriage pact with the Freys has been long in its dissolution, my lady; but King Robb thought it best that it did not appear that he had anticipated the break. It was a political matter, not a family one,” the Smalljon explains.

 _It is a family matter to me_ , she thinks wistfully. “But then it will seem as though Arya has been set aside. How could his grace desire such a thing? Or my mother?”

“The pact was very unpopular here in the North, Sansa; even you have said that you pitied Arya returning South, and to House Frey, no less. Though there is no less than House Frey is there?” The Greatjon laughed at his own humor again.

After Robb had been recognized as King in the North by King Renly, Walder Frey and his brood had anticipated that his daughter Roslin’s royal marriage would garner plum positions at court and highly-placed marriages for his many offspring. But Robb had never kept much of a formal court and he had rewarded his own Northmen first. The loss of many in battles meant that there were fewer high-born men for Frey’s daughters to wed and those Northern houses with female heirs choose to marry them to Northern men. The only other successful marriage brokered had been that of a fat daughter named Walda to Roose Bolton, and at the cost of the girl’s weight in silver for a dowry. The Frey patriarch was further insulted when Robb elected to delay Arya’s promised union to one of his sons, Elmar the boy was named, until she reached ten-and-six, saying that she had needed time with her family to recover from the death of her father and her ordeal in the South. Sansa had been deeply hurt when she had heard of Robb’s excuses, and wondered why she had not merited the same consideration as Arya. Sometimes she did not feel that she was a Stark at all; and she believed that her family felt the same.

“No one will be unhappy to see your lady sister stay in the North, Sansa,” the Greatjon reassures her mildly. “And what of your marriage prospects, Smalljon?” Her husband turns his attentions to his heir now and Sansa looks back and forth between them. “Did they thrust Lady Alys at you? I trust you did not thrust any part of yourself at Lady Alys!” He laughs heartily at his own bawdy words. “Well, is Rickard to be your good-father? Gods be good. Though I’ve naught against the girl if you haven’t, boy.”

“You speak of my marrying and call me boy in the same breath? I wonder if I am fit to wed then,” the Smalljon remarks sourly.

The Greatjon looks at his son with impatience. “If I live to see you go gray like me, you will still be my boy, Smalljon. What ails you this night? Did the girl fail to please you…or did you fail to please her?”

“I can please any lady very well, Father-” he bristles.

The Greatjon laughs at his son’s defensiveness as though he were bragging. “Listen to him!”

Sansa is confused again: she was unaware that Lord Jon was even considering marriage and he was with her in their tower only this day after his return; she wonders how he can love her and think of marrying another girl. But he and his father seem to be approaching an argument now and Sansa does not want the tension in the solar to escalate. She is fearful of the Smalljon’s anger, and her husband’s; and she feels compelled to reconcile them. “I am sure your eldest son is a desirable match for any lady, my lord,” she tells the Greatjon gently.

“Of course he is: he has the look of his father!” he crows. “And he is my heir-“

“I thank you for your kind words, my lady,” the Smalljon tells her archly, “mayhaps I should make suit for the Lady Arya,” he taunts her though only she knows it.

Sansa sucks in her breath. “I do not doubt that you are a worthy match, Lord Jon; however if the king has given his word to Harrion Karstark, he would not be like to break it,” she looks at him steadily now. “My lord brother always honors his words.” Her words are meant as a reproach.

“Forgive me then, my lady: I am sure no Stark has given reason to question their _honor_.”

Sansa’s chest tightens and she feels as though she could reel from the underlying harshness of his words which hit her like a blow to her flesh, a feeling she has not forgotten. She suddenly feels shaky and so turns to her lord husband.

“Will you pardon me, my lord? I fear I have over-exerted myself unnecessarily today,” she keeps herself from glancing at the Smalljon as she speaks, “and I should like to retire.”

The Greatjon sets down his horn and rises from his chair. “You should have stayed abed today, I told you,” he insists though she knows well that he did not. “I’ll see you to our chamber.”

“No, my lord,” she insists, “I am well enough to retire alone…and it will leave you free to discuss matters of importance if I am not present to impede you,” she adds sadly. The men all rise self-consciously as she wishes them good rest and leaves the solar with her head held high and her hands clasped together before her.

She sits at her dressing table brushing her hair when the Greatjon comes in; he seemed surprised to see her awake.

“I thought you’d be asleep, Sansa: were you not tired? You needs mind yourself in your condition -“

“I will, my lord; but I wished to ask your forgiveness. I was ungracious towards you in the solar and would beg pardon. I was surprised to have such important news of my sister Arya, and to be the last to know, it seemed.”

The Greatjon waved away her concerns as he came to stand behind her. He liked to watch her brush her hair, she knew: he would take his time putting on his boots in the morning if her maid was brushing and braiding her hair, and she could see him steal glances in her looking glass as he sat on the end of their bed.

“As Smalljon said: the king wished to keep his choice secret. Karstark was careless to tell even my son without a royal proclamation. The Freys have been a pain in your brother’s ass since he sat it on his throne and he’s well rid of them.”

Sansa set her hairbrush down now. “But Queen Roslin is a Frey,” she ventures.

“Aye, and a fine queen she has made regardless. I suspect your lady mother had a hand in choosing for him; though she may well have been the only one he could stand to look upon without suffering the green-sickness: ugly lot those Frey girls,” he shudders in revulsion. “I saw them for myself and prayed the gods my king did not offer me as husband. I’d have taken the Black: wildling spearwives and white walkers would have been a better fate.”

_And a better fate than me, for they would not have betrayed you as I have._

She looks down at her hands. “I pray I have never given you cause to lament your fate, my lord,” she says humbly.

He reaches a great hand to cup her cheek now. “Never once, Sansa. To bed with you now.”

She rises and walks to the bed and shrugs out of her fur robe to drape it over the footboard. The Greatjon sheds his clothes and lets his boots fall onto the floor and pulls the covers of the bed back and climbs in naked beside her.

“Feeling better then?” he asks gently and he pats her shoulder and leaves his hand there and Sansa knows that he wants her and so she nods and smiles and turns to him. He strokes her hair and runs his big hands down her body over her bedgown and strokes her thigh. When he moves closer she lies back compliantly and raises her bedgown above her waist and opens her legs for him as he rolls his tremendous body onto hers, propping himself on his elbows so she will not have to bear his weight. He grunts under his breath as he enters her slowly and easily and begins to move in and out of her, never breaking the repetitive rhythm of his steady thrusting. He goes on a long time like this and sometimes he will reach to touch her hair or her face or to cup her breast. He does not hurt her, though his member is large and long, and lying with him is not unpleasant but Sansa looks up at him with a dispassionate detachment belied by her soft smile and gentle breathing. Finally his own breath comes heavier and his eyes flutter and roll back and he grunts with an expelled breath and her name on his lips and holds himself inside her as he spends his seed in pulsing throbs and sighs in relief. He withdraws from her as soon as he is finished and rolls off her onto his back and lays a great arm across his eyes and waits for his breathing to resume normally. He leans over to kiss her cheek.

“Good night, Sansa.”

“Sleep well, my lord.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a possible trigger warning for mention of a difficult and painful loss of virginity and of a medieval man's rights to his wife.

Her husband falls asleep almost immediately and within a short time begins to snore. He will sometimes snore until daybreak but Sansa is long accustomed to it now and usually sleeps soundly regardless. But before…

She remembers how poorly she slept when she first came to Last Hearth. After her wedding night, Sansa had been given her own chamber and at night she suffered nightmares as bad as any she had suffered in Kings Landing. She was alone again and far from her family only this time they had sent her away; she had not wanted to leave as she had when she first left Winterfell with her father and Arya. Though she knows that her brother, King Robb, owes a great debt to the Greatjon, she thought that her family did not want her, that they had sent her to the Last Hearth because she had betrayed her father to Queen Cersei and because she had written the letter she had been told to write, calling her father a traitor and asking them to swear fealty to Joffrey. They could not forgive her for having wanted to marry Joffrey, any more than she could forgive herself; and so she was sent to live far away with big rough men who frightened her. The Greatjon and his uncles and even his sons were not only hugely big and strong, but loud and rough of speech and sometimes of manners. They drank ale and pounded tables when they argued and even when they sang, and they fought fiercely with their big two-handed greatswords and laughed at their bloody cuts and bruises.

And no matter how kind and gentle he had tried to be when he had first bedded her, all Sansa could remember of that night was her new husband’s enormous size, his hairy naked body and musky smell and his grunts and hot breath on her. He had spoken reassuringly to her but she had still shut her eyes and whimpered when he had grasped his large manhood with one hand and slowly eased it into her tense and trembling body, terrified that he might tear her apart. She had bled copiously, startling him; and he had called for the old mountain healing woman that had once been his older children’s nurse to tend her. He had stood by awkwardly and patted her head to comfort her as the old woman wiped away her maiden’s blood and assured him that she was only a young girl, and she would heal. Sansa had apologized for crying; she knew she should have been braver and borne it as befit a lady; but he had shook his head and insisted that she have her own chamber until she was older and ready to share his bed again. So she had slept alone and woken shaking from nightmares of beatings by cruel knights in white cloaks or attacks by garlic-stinking commons or of being mounted in turns and torn apart by loudly laughing Umber men, all in a strange bed in a strange place in the middle of the dark of night in the furthest reaches of the North.

Later she had shed quiet tears in the same bed when she felt her belly beneath her too-tight bedgown as it swelled every day with his child. But he had been pleased to be told that she was with child, and had surprised her with the first of many gifts. The best wine was brought up from the cellar to settle her tummy and bolts of fine wool were purchased for new gowns to fit her expanding middle. He had his daughters find her a maid befitting the lady of the castle, and then sent all the way to Winterfell for her mother to attend the birth of their first child. The Greatjon had howled with delight when he was told that he had another son, and kissed her head and their son’s head and told her that she was a fine Lady Umber and that he could not be prouder or more happy.  When she returned to his bed, he smiled and held out his hand and treated her gently and carefully and it did not hurt so much and in time it did not hurt at all but he continued to be careful with her, she knows. She knows because she knows a different man now: gentler in some ways, rough and passionate in others.

Sansa learned that her husband’s loudness was simply a part of his great size: his voice was as big as the rest of him. He would shout and curse and wave his arms and stomp his feet, but she had never seem him strike anyone, not even a servant or stable boy, no matter how much they angered him. Even the soldiers with whom he trained, he would laugh after beating them and then slap them on their backs and thank them for good sport. He could drink horn after horn of ale but the few times that she had seen him truly drunk at feasts or after battles with wildlings, he had slept fully clothed on a table in the Great Hall rather than share their bed. His laughter was as great and outsized as his person, and he frequently turned it on himself. And if he was kind and careful with her, he was even more so with their children. He loved to throw their son in the air and catch him and chase him around the yard and tickle him when he caught him, making him squeal and giggle; but he would also pick him up unhesitatingly if he fell down or cried and spoke gently and held him in his big arms until he laughed again. He would coo and smile at their baby girl and cradle her until she fell asleep clutching her small fists into his furs.  Sansa came to understand that she was safe with him and so she could close her eyes at night without dreading that her nightmares of cruel treatment and of living in constant fear would return to haunt her.

This long night however, sleep eludes her for she cannot close her eyes without seeing the Smalljon look on her as though he does not know her. He looked resentful, and cold; his words, with their thinly veiled meaning, were bitter. She wonders if he is angry simply because she had not told him of her condition right away; or if it is because he thinks the child may be his or because he thinks it is his father’s. She does not know which would be worse to him. But surely, Sansa reasons, he must know that she lies with his father: she has already borne him a son and a daughter, and she is his wife. Sansa knows her duty to her husband and she does not resent him for it, and is in fact grateful that he does not treat her unkindly. Were she to refuse him, he would be within his rights to force himself on her, or to beat her into submission. Her husband has never once harmed her, but she has never given him cause.  At least that he knows.

Joffrey had punished her for less: Joffrey who had her stripped and beaten before his entire court for being the sister of a traitor when Robb won his victories in battle. She had feared nothing so much as having to share his bed; she knew that he would not have been kind or gentle. He had called her stupid, and even threatened to take her head if she had given him a stupid child.   _He_ had looked on her coldly as well.

She goes the next day to the north tower, and the next; but he is not there, nor is he in the solar in the evenings when she sits with her husband and his uncles. She sews for her children and sings for her husband and feels her heart die that she has lost her lover’s love as surely as she has lost her family’s. She tells herself to stop visiting the north tower, but she cannot. After six long days he is there. He sits at his writing desk with his feet on the table and a flagon at hand and a pewter cup in his grasp. He looks her over from head to toe with cold disdain.

“My lady,” he jeers, and Sansa sees that he is drunk. “How kind of you to visit the north tower. How may I be of service to you?”

Sansa is frightened. She has not been alone with a drunken man since the fall of Kings Landing. But she loves him; and she thought he loved her.

“I- I am so very sorry Lord Jon…I had wished to tell you of my- my condition when you returned but-“

“But you did not.” He sets down his cup and rises to walk towards her unsteadily. “You let me fuck you like a love-sick green boy…” he belches and Sansa winces at his crude words. “… though you carry my father’s child.” He comes closer and leans over her and breathes heavily in her face; she can smell the wine.

“Please…” she pleads softly. She does not want him to be like this, not with her.

He grabs her arm and twists it as he pulls her to him. “Please...what, my lady: pleasure you?” he snorts derisively. “Like my father does? Tell me…do you smile for him when you spread your legs? Do you tell him that you love to have _him_ inside you?”

Sansa is stunned and hurt: how can he say such things when he knows she is his? She loves him, body and soul; how can he think that she takes pleasure in having to give herself to another man, even though that man is her husband? It is her husband she has betrayed, not him.

“Oh,” she breathes and shakes her head imploringly. “How can you think…I _love_ you,” she sobs passionately. “You have my heart…as well as my- my body: how is that not _enough_?”

In all the songs, the lover would plead for a look, a kiss, a pledge; and they were satisfied, grateful even. She had given him all of herself.  Why was he angry?

“I am his wife and I _cannot_ …” she sucks in her breath to say it: “I am his _property_ …and it is my duty, Lord Jon: you _know_ this. You know I have no _choice_ …for if I did, I would be yours and _only_ yours.”

He looks upon her, bleary-eyed and angry and yearning, and releases her at the same time as he raises one of his powerful arms. She shrinks away from him for she truly believes that he may strike her; but instead he wipes his nose on his sleeve and belches again.

“So,” he begins heavily, “I see that this is all my fault…fool Karstarks…I have left you for too long and you have done your duty and he has got you with child. Curse him,” he mutters harshly through clenched teeth, “curse him and curse myself and curse you, my lady, for coming to this tower and letting me love you so much…” he hiccups now “…so much that I should be jealous of my own father…that I should wish him- “ He leaves his words unfinished but Sansa grasps his meaning. She also realizes that it had not occurred to him yet that the child could be his, but instead he is bitter that it is his father’s.

“You must not think that way,” she tells him. “It is not his fault; even I do not resent-“

“ _Go!”_ He lashes out angrily, and then sniffles. “Go now,” he repeats miserably, “before I say terrible things to hurt you. I have no wish to hurt you, I- “ He shuts his eyes tightly and seems to be gathering himself. “I love you, my lady, I do. I love you and our tower…but it is not just _us_ here anymore,” he looks to her belly though she does not show yet, not when she is dressed, “please give me leave to grieve that as best…or as worst I can.” He turns and lists to one side as he walks back to his desk and picks up the pewter cup of wine with a swipe of one of his great hands.

She has been standing with her hands pressed to her mouth and has scarcely breathed since he raised his voice to her. She sees his hurt and wishes to stay and comfort him, and be comforted by him. Their love is tarnished and it is not a song anymore but real life and they must both accept that. But she turns slowly instead and walks to the doorway of their tower room.

“My lady,” he calls dully now.

She turns her head to look back at him sadly though she keeps one hand on the latch of the heavy door she had been about to close behind her.

“You will return to me, won’t you?” He is trying to speak kindly but Sansa hears that he is as desperately forlorn as she feels.

She drops her eyes, and drops her head, and she nods. She will come back to him; she had never thought that she wouldn’t.


	8. Chapter 8

She does not see him again until the next evening. He enters the solar and helps himself to a horn of ale, though Sansa cannot help thinking that he does not need any more. He is not drunk, for which she is thankful; but he is tired and worn-looking, his usual robust health seems diminished and she is saddened to think that she is the cause.

“Smalljon,” his father greets him. “Where have you been keeping yourself? Gods but you look wretched, boy: is it a broken heart that’s ailing you? Go out and kill some wildlings, you’ll feel your old self again. It may help to stick your sword into someone,” he jests, and Sansa understands that there is a bawdy meaning to sticking his sword into someone.

The Smalljon mutters something but his father does not hear him because he is holding their daughter, his and Sansa’s babe, and she is fussing and he is holding her aloft by her chubby middle and making faces at her.

“Woooo!" He exclaims as he lifts her up and down between his knees. “Wooooo!”

“You’re acting a fool,” his son observes sullenly, “and making her cry.”

“She cries because she is cutting her teeth and it hurts her; and I will wear patched motley and dance like a baited bear if it soothes her. Have you forgotten your brothers and sisters as babes?”

“Mother made a posset for them; she knew how to soothe them.” He glances quickly at Sansa and away.

“Your nurse made the posset, as she is doing now; and her mother will soothe her,” he tells his son angrily as he stands to his full height. “Take her, Sansa,” he hands their daughter over to her. “Now, I don’t know what rabid rodent has crawled up your ass and is eating at your vitals, boy; and if you will not tell me that is your choice but you do _not_ disrespect Lady Umber, not unless you want to cross swords here in the solar. _Do you hear me_ , _boy_?”

The Greatjon shouts and the baby wails louder and longer and Sansa looks to them, stricken. She is fearful of what may be said if they should argue heatedly.

“Please,” she pleads to them, “not here and not now. My lords, I beg you-”

The Greatjon is locked in a staring stance with his eldest son and does not turn to her.

“Take her to the nursery, Sansa,” he commands, not harshly.

“But young Eddard is sleeping, and she will wake him-“ she tries to reason.

“It is I who should leave,” the Smalljon relents now and he looks humbled and even ashamed. “Forgive me father; and you, my lady: I meant no disrespect.” He clumsily pats his half-sister’s head and takes his leave, leaving his ale on a table and passing the nurse in the doorway on his way out.

“Needs a good fuck,” the Crowfoot pronounces clearly and crudely after he has gone.

“Lad’s never gone wanting before,” Whoresbane observes. “They must’ve deprived him of wenches at Karhold, thinking it’d make him want Lady Alys, and now he’s forgotten how.”

“Mind your tongues,” the Greatjon snaps when he sees that Sansa is turning pink and pursing her lips. The Whoresbane guffaws but Crowfoot nudges him and shakes his head, blinking his single eye. The two old men rise and leave but not before topping their outsized tankards with more ale.

“Forgive him, Sansa,” the Greatjon asks of her now, and she knows he means his son. “I can't think what is plaguing him since he returned from Karhold.” He looks troubled and still somewhat angry.

“Mayhaps he misses his brothers,” Sansa offers as explanation. The Greatjon’s younger sons by his first wife had by now been warded out to other houses: the youngest is a page to King Robb at Winterfell, and the Smalljon had taken another to serve as a squire at Karhold. She knew how it felt to be without sibling; but she also knew the true cause of his despondency.

Her husband makes a sound of impatience. “He knew they would needs leave one day; and he has friends in the garrison and the village. It is not the company of men he lacks.”

“Will you…will you command him to marry the Lady Alys, my lord?” Sansa is not certain if she wants to hear his answer.

“No,” he replies, though with resignation. “I do not much care what maiden he marries so long as she is worthy to be Lady of Last Hearth,” he nods to her appreciatively and then grows somber again. “And I have other sons if he will not have heirs.”

“But certainly he means to be your heir,” she observes, “he has taken on so many of a lord’s responsibilities since your lands are so vast and your people so dispersed. Surely he will do his duty by you and your house,” she assures him because she knows that Lord Jon loves Last Hearth and would not be like to risk losing his rights to a younger brother, no matter how much he may love them as well.

“Mayhaps I should have you speak with him,” he half-jests, “for you have never failed in your duty to your house or mine, and so he may listen to you.”

Sansa is uncertain how to reply, for she knows she is the least worthy person to speak of duty, and to her secret lover no less; but she is relieved of needing to answer when the weathered old nurse has finished filling a small a sheep’s bladder with the warm posset and worms the opening into the baby’s mouth as Sansa holds her. The child begins to suck and drink, and so Sansa takes the bladder and nods her thanks to the nurse.

“She’ll sleep the night with only a dram of that posset, milady, so don’t let have too much. Shall I stay or-“

“I will bring her to you so that you may watch over young Eddard,” Sansa whispers, “I thank you for all your help.”

The woman smiles to her and nods to the Greatjon and leaves the solar.

“She likes you, Sansa: she knows you’re a good mother,” the Greatjon reassures her as he stands over her now and looks down as his daughter getting sleepy-eyed already.

Sansa smiles gently. “She is from the mountains beyond the Wolfswood, the lands of the First Flints, my lord; and my father’s grandmother was a Flint. My sister was named for her. But I know that she came to Last Hearth to serve your first lady wife,” she pauses to gauge his reaction but he says nothing. “Did…did you love her very much, my lord?”

He is silent for a moment and Sansa fears she has offended him but finally he replies. “She was a good wife and mother,” he says somewhat haltingly, “as are you, Sansa. She’s had enough, wouldn’t you say?”

Carefully Sansa pulls the tip of the sheep’s bladder from her baby’s mouth and smiles to see that she sleeps. She glances over her shoulder and notices that her husband has a pained line between his eyes.

“Forgive me, my lord, if I have offended you; but please know that I am not offended that you loved your first wife, and so you needs not keep it from me. She made you happy, and gave you fine strong children. I do not remember her though; did she ever visit Winterfell?”

“She did,” he replies shortly. “ _We_ did,” he amends, “though you would have been no more than a babe yourself. She was ill for some years before she…some matter with her lungs, the maester said, but she was strong and so lived longer than expected though she worsened all the while. I wonder…” he stopped talking.

Sansa had been rocking her daughter as he spoke and now she looked up at him. “My lord?’

He shook his head but continued. “Smalljon was eldest, and so he knew his mother best and then he watched her fall sick and slowly die… I wonder it’s not the reason he is reluctant to marry now. It must have been hard for him.” He says nothing of how hard it must have been for himself.

“I am so very sorry, my lord,” Sansa whispers softly.

He looks at her absently; and then he smiles fondly but fleetingly and lightly brushes her cheek with the back of his large hand.

“You’re a sweet girl, Sansa,” he tells her. “Will you take her to the nursery now?”

“I think I would sit with her a while longer. Will you to bed, my lord?”

He yawns hugely and then nods sheepishly. “It would seem best,” he chuckles self-deprecatingly.

“Sleep well, my lord.”

Alone in the solar, Sansa rocks her child and cannot but think on what the Greatjon has told her. His words were the most he has ever said about the late Lady Umber, though she knows that she has been gone over ten-and-five years and that she was a strong woman and more than a match for her outspoken husband. _She’d been hale and hearty afore the sickness, with a wicked tongue and a bawdy laugh_ , the old mountain woman had once told her, eyeing Sansa up and down, _ye never knows what woman will survive and what won’t._   After having attended Sansa the night of her bedding, the old woman had been kind to her but did not seem to expect much of a teary young girl. Sansa imagined that after living with the Umbers for so many years she must have appeared reticent and even timid to her; but she had learned to be guarded around the servants in the Red Keep and so had needed time to trust again. Now, after twice seeing her through childbirth and watching her rise to her role as the new Lady Umber, the old woman showed her a warm respect that Sansa returned in kind.

All of this made it seem to Sansa that both of the men she knew had suffered at the loss of her predecessor: one mourned his wife, the other his mother. She wondered now at her appeal to either of them, especially given that she was so different: a soft-spoken young girl with gentle manners and the Tully look rather than the look and spirit of a true Northerner, as Arya had. She considers that the Greatjon may have married her so as to have a young wife that would not die before him. But women of all ages were lost to the bloody bed or simply died of exhaustion from birthing too many children in too few years; as she seemed like to do if she continued at her present rate, she thought irreverently. And Lord Jon…mayhaps it was easier for him to love her since she could never completely be his, and so her loss would be somehow less. She is a safe choice for him in some ways; a more dangerous one in others.

It comes as a soft shock to her to realize that she should know them so little. Oh, she knew their characters mostly and certainly their habits and even their bodies but nothing of what was in their hearts other than what little they deigned to tell her. She felt that neither ever truly opened their hearts to her; and how strange it should be to share a life and a bed and such intimacy with a near-stranger. Yet her parents had done so, as had Robb and Roslin; but a man was never a woman’s property, even if she should have his heart.

Sansa thinks on marriage and the marriage bed and what has become of her and, in time, what will become of her daughter. She looks down on her: full of love and dreams for her happiness as a child and as a woman grown, without being truly able to know that she would find any happiness in life. Her babe fusses again momentarily, straining and wiggling in her sleep, and waves her little arms about before settling again.

Sansa leans down and whispers to her: “Would you spread your wings and take flight, then? Yes, you should. Fly away, little bird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: a posset in medieval terms was a drink made of hot milk and ale or wine: outrageous to think of giving a babe alcohol these days but it was not uncommon up until the twentieth century when even baby “gripe water”, a treatment for colic, contained alcohol.


	9. Chapter 9

Both the Greatjon and his son are breaking their fast with the soldiers of the garrison when Sansa arrives in the Great Hall. Her husband sees her enter and his voice booms above all the others.

“Sansa! Come sit with us! Let the soldiers see what they fight for when they fight for House Umber and the Last Hearth!”

As she approaches the tables, men rise and bow their heads and Sansa demurs graciously.

“Please do not rise; finish your plates, for I know how hard you all train,” she tells them. “You must be hungry.”

The men sit and eat heartily as they fill themselves with porridge and boiled eggs and fried bread and sausages. Pitchers of cold cider are passed and they drink in hurried gulps and wipe their beards with the back so their callused hands.  A servant places a wooden chair at the head of a table next to the Greatjon and she sits gracefully at his side.

“Will you eat,” he asks, and then leans closer, “or do you still have the morning sickness?”

Truthfully Sansa feels queasy watching the soldiers stuff food into their mouths with their hands or on the points of their daggers and chew noisily and belch loudly, but she has not eaten and knows that she must for the sake of the child she carries.  “It- it has passed already this morning, my lord, I-“

“Good!” he exults. “A plate for Lady Umber,” he shouts at a passing serving girl who thumps a bowl of porridge with glistening knobs of butter before her. Sansa picks up her spoon.

“My lady,” the Smalljon calls, and she looks up to see him leaning forward from between other soldiers further down the table. “Might I ask…how fares my sister this morning? I fear I upset her-“

“She slept peacefully, Lord Jon; you are kind to ask after her. How…how does young Eddard enjoy his training?”

“He watches us mostly; and we explain what he has seen and then let him try some moves with is wooden sword. Sometimes the younger boys who have begun training will practice with him. Four is quite young to begin; we simply try to make him familiar with it for now.”

“He is as eager as you were at that age,” the Gratjon tells his son, “but you had no older brothers to guide you. He’s lucky to have you, Smalljon. You are good with him, and the boys you train. You should be having sons of your own: is that not so, Sansa?”

Her husband has tried to sound offhand but she knows this is the encouragement that he hopes that she would give his son, and so Sansa looks down into her porridge and draws breath to gather her courage. “Every good man should have sons of his own, my lord,” she says softly, and she looks up at her lover and holds his gaze and she sees his face change imperceptibly and hopes that he has understood. He returns her gaze for a long moment and turns back to his plate. When Sansa resumes spooning up her porridge, she hears him speak again.

“Do you attend the meeting of the guilds in the village this day, Father; or shall I go in your stead?”

The Greatjon considers over a cup of cider. “Best I go this time. I’m still lord of the castle and needs show my face on occasion; though I’d sooner show them my arse when they start their endless jabbering-“

Sansa was no longer listening, for the Smalljon has locked eyes with her and gives a slow nod.

“Shall I accompany you, my lord?” Sansa heard herself ask.

Her husband pats her hand. “You stay here, Sansa,” he counsels her, “and see you lie down at some point in the day.”

Sansa lies on the shearling rug in the north tower with her skirts raised and legs wrapped around her lover and her arms around his powerful shoulders. She has the fingers of one slender hand twisted into this thick hair. “Again,” she whispers against his lips.

He pulls back with his hips so that his hard member is once again poised at her entrance and then he fills her slowly and deeply so that she sucks in her breath sharply and sighs. “Oh, that is _so_ lovely…”

“Gods but you’re tight and wet,” he breathes in a rush. “How can you not think you are enough for me? You are more than enough, my lady: you are _everything_.” He is looking down at her and she smiles tremulously and looks up at him with warm blue eyes full of love and promise.

“Then have everything from me, for I am yours, my sweetest love.” Her body fells warm and liquid: like a bladder full of posset, she almost laughs. She runs her fingertips languidly down his bare chest, for he has shed his jerkin, tunic and shirt, and she watches the tightening of the highly carved muscles of his abdomen as he pulls back and thrusts in, pulls back and thrusts in and his breath catches in guttural grunts from deep in his throat. She can see he is watching the rise and fall of her breasts against the tight bodice of her low, round-necked gown. Though she still does not show in her middle, her breasts have already swollen and so more of her milky, rounded flesh appears to tantalize him. Even her husband had cast his eyes to her bosom as he bid her farewell when she saw him off from the doorway nearest the stables,she thinks fleetingly now; but now she is with her lover and so nothing else in this world matters. Nothing else makes her feel like this: like she is loved, as Jonquil and Jenny of Oldstones had been loved. She closes her eyes and sighs, lost in a dream of happiness.

She helps him to re-lace his jerkin when he leaves and waits before taking the stairs below. Servants sometimes bring barrels of dried fruit or game or salted fish to store in the lower rooms. She listens carefully and hears no voices, and so she hurries down and through the hallways until she reaches her chamber. Sansa washes quickly beneath her gown and then smoothes down her underskirts and straightens the ribbons at the tops of her woolen stockings. She catches a glimpse of herself in the looking glass on her dressing table and notices her hair is messy on one side.

 _Thank the gods no one saw me,_ she frets and quickly pulls the ribbon from the end of her hair and unbraids it. She brushes it carefully and considers leaving it loose with only a pair of combs to pull back the sides when the Greatjon enters and stops in his lumbering tracks to see her seated before her mirror.

“Sansa?” He looks concerned. “Do to retire already? Do you needs rest?”

Sansa turns and rises to greet him. “No, my lord, I am well; only...my braid was loose and so I thought to tidy my hair for your return.”

She thinks he is looking at her oddly as he steps toward her, and her heart begins to beat more quickly.  But then he reaches out and gently runs his ham-sized hand through her thick hair on one side and swallows visibly.

“You hair is always beautiful, Sansa…you grow more beautiful all the time,” he tells her, “every time I look at you.” His voice is deep yet gentle, the voice she remembers from their bedding, and she feels herself blush deeply.

“I…thank you, my lord,’ she drops her eyes in confusion. _Why does he look at me like that?_ “How- how was your meeting with the guilds?”

He keeps his hand in her hair but rests it on the side of her face, cupping her cheek. He continues to gaze at her but he chuckles lightly under his breath.

“I have no notion…do you now that? I don’t think I heard a word of their jabbering, Sansa, because all I could think of was you…standing there seeing me off with your little hands clasped together and your sweet smile like a girl, and with your flaming hair bound and your dress fitting you like a woman.”

His hand has let go of her hair and his fingers trace down the side of her jaw and neck and tremble, Sansa realizes, tremble like a green boy’s as his fingertips graze the skin below her neck and over the tops of her breasts in her low-necked gown. She is astonished to feel her own body respond to his tender touch: her mouth falls open as her bosom rises when she draws her breath in suddenly.

“My lord,” she whispers hoarsely, thinking that he must stop now because this is not how her husband behaves but then he kisses her full on the mouth and pulls her to him so that she needs grab his great shoulders to keep her balance. When he feels her hands on him, he deepens his kiss and wraps his powerful arms around her lower back and waist, making her stretch up on tiptoe, and draws the very breath from her body. Sansa clings to him and kisses him back.

In time he stops and lessens his grip on her but leans and burrows his face and beard into her hair and murmurs into her ear: “My sweet Sansa,” and his voice is equal parts honey and gravel, “will you lie with me now?”

She nods quickly with a squeaky whimper. Her lips and skin feel hot and she wants him to kiss her again, even as she knows she should not; she does not love him but another man and she should not want him like this but her heart beats swift and strong and her breath comes quick and shallow. Instead of kissing her he puts his hands on her hips and gently but firmly turns her back to him. She is confused and thinks he means to take her like this but instead he brushes her long hair from the back of her neck and begins to unlace her bodice. He does not fumble, or pull, but works patiently with deft sure fingers to loosen and then spread open the back of her heavy wool gown. His fingers trail down her spine now and make her shiver.

“Your skin, Sansa: it’s so warm and soft, and so pale that it almost gives light…like the moon on fresh snow.”

She closes her eyes and she can see what he has described and it is so beautiful and so moving that he should think of her in such terms that her throat tightens and she almost sobs. When she feels him draw her gown from her shoulders, she reaches to help and when their hands touch he twines their fingers together and they both push the gown over her breasts and belly and hips and let it fall to the floor. He unties the drawstring of her underskirts and then reaches around her to untie her smallclothes and she leans back into the warmth of his body through his furs and lets her head drop back onto his shoulder when her runs warm hands up under her shift and presses kisses onto the skin of her own soft shoulders and neck.

Sansa’s head spins as she tries to still her racing thoughts. _This is not duty, and he does not take his rights but speaks as though he loves me…_

He is struggling to shed his furs and underclothes with one hand behind her as the other continues to caress her beneath her shift. He cups a gentle hand over her fuller breast and grazes the taut nipple with those deft fingers and her breath leaves her in a quivering hot rush and she pulls her shift over her head and turns to him naked. Her long auburn hair swirls around her shoulders and she looks up at him with a tremulous yearning. With his shirt open and untucked and his breeches half unlaced, he scoops her up easily and carries her to cradle her in the soft furs of their bed. She thinks no more after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The phrase that Greatjon's kiss draws the breath from her body is inspired by a line from "Further North" by SecondStarOnTheLeft.  
> The description of his voice as "equal parts honey and gravel" in inspired by the description of the voice of a singer at the Wall by Maester Aemon, who calls it "honey poured over thunder".


	10. Chapter 10

“Girl, have servants bring our meals; and then tell the nurse to bring the children before they’re put to bed.”

“Does milady need attending, milord?”

Sansa’s maid is outside the oak-and-iron door of their chamber and the Greatjon will not let her pass. He stands blocking the doorway with his big body dressed in an old fur-trimmed brown wool robe as Sansa watches sheepishly from their bed with the furs pulled up high to her chin, even though the girl cannot possibly see her.

“Your lady needs her evening meal, and I need mine, so get to the kitchens and tell them we’re starving up here!”

He slams the heavy door and turns back to Sansa.

“Blast!” He swears suddenly, “I forgot to tell her to bring you lemon cakes-“

Sansa blushes and shakes her head. “There have not been lemons at Last Hearth for well over two years, my lord; and so there will be no lemon cakes.” The Stark words held true and winter had come to the North.

He sits on the bed next to her in his robe now and the mattress dips and the great wooden bedframe groans, much as it did when they had lain together for the last few hours. “No lemons and no Arbor wines: that will not do! I’ll send to the Reach and to Dorne. What my Sansa wants, she shall have,” he boasts and leans to kiss her shoulder and down her arm to her wrist before biting the heel of her hand and making Sansa jump and give a high-pitched yelp like a puppy. The Greatjon chuckles and smiles.

“Did I not say I was hungry? I’ve worked myself an appetite,” he jests to her.

Sansa blushes even harder so that she is certain she is as dark as a beetroot and drops her eyes modestly. Her husband puts a finger under her chin and lifts her face back to his. He is patient but firm.

“What is it, Sansa?” he asks gently. “Have I hurt you?” She thinks that he must know the answer for he does not look concerned.

She looks fondly on him and shakes her head. “Oh no,” she tells him feelingly, “no. I- I…”

“Tell me.”

She swallows. “It’s just…I don’t…I…what has changed, my lord? I feel that somehow, something has- has changed.”

He sighs and takes her face between his hands so that she shifts to turn to him and the furs she was clutching fall to her waist and her hair falls around her shoulders and over her breasts as he pulls her toward him to kiss her forehead.

“You’re more woman than girl now, Sansa; and high time I treated you like one, hm?” He kisses her lips now: a full, gentle kiss that draws her closer to him as she returns it lingeringly. He leans his forehead to hers.

“Did you….like it, then?”

She cannot but smile gently, and her eyelids flutter and she nods timidly. He had taken her three times; each time had been slow and gentle but his touch had been firm when he ran his hands over her body and his kisses had been sure as they covered her skin and he pushed onward steadily the more she yielded and responded to him. He had churned his hips and rocked her body as he moved over her so that she moved with him and she churned back and arched and strained and softly cried out when they reached their completion together. The last time he had pulled her on top of him and guided her wordlessly to ride his large, hard member; and she’s had to feign hesitancy and awkwardness but he had groaned and panted to see her bite her lower lip when she had sank onto him fully and to sway over him naked. Finally he had invoked the gods and shouted her name when he peaked with a burst of powerful throbbing and spurting seed.

She looks him in the eye now and answers softly and without blushing, like a woman: “I felt very close to you, my lord.”

There is a knock at their door before he can reply and so instead he tells her to put on her robe and rises to open it. Servants carry trays of food and a flagon of wine and a pitcher of ale and set it all down on a table and draw up two chairs. The candles have burned down and need to be replaced and their bed is a tangle of linens and furs and the servants all see and stare and then avert their eyes and leave bowing when the Greatjon closes the door. He laughs loudly then like the man she knows. He rolls his eyes towards the disheveled bed.

“They love their talk; and we have given them cause. It will be all over the castle before we even finish our meal,” he observes almost proudly.

Sansa’s smile falters now for the first time since he returned to their chamber from the village, and she stands momentarily frozen with her hands clasped before her as he pulls out her chair for her to sit.

“Come eat,” he orders, “you needs feed the both of you.”

She sits across from him and before she can reach to serve him as is proper, he piles slabs of meat on her plate and begins to push roasted vegetables from a platter after the meat and Sansa protests.

“I cannot possibly eat so much, my lord; not even when with child.”

“Well…try,” he blusters, “you always eat so dainty…like a little bird,” he observes. “Why do you call Serena that? Did your father call you that, or was it your mother?”

It always hurts her so to think of her father but she shakes her head faintly and near-whispers: “She likes to hear me sing, my lord.” _I wanted her to fly away, as I wished to fly away._

“She does,” he agrees, “but then so do I; and you have never likened me to a little bird…but no one would liken me to anything little,” he laughs his great laugh again.

“…unless they wished to lose their life by your sword, my lord,” she parries teasingly, “as surely as a capon under the cook’s axe.”

He grunts as he chews. “Killing in battle is a good thing, and necessary; but taking a man’s head is not the same. Thank the gods I haven’t had to execute anyone this past year, not even a single wildling or deserter from the Nights Watch. Nasty business, taking a man’s head; some die well but others weep like women and piss themselves. Though it puts fear in the hearts of men; your father knew that and so does the king, though example is better than fear. A good man generally has a good people: they will follow him and his laws if they know and respect him, and he’s a good king, your brother.”

Sansa thinks of her father’s greatsword, Ice, which King Renly returned to Robb with her after he had it used to take the heads of Joffrey, Cersei and Lancel Lannister and even Ilyn Payne; the surviving members of the Kingsguard who had beaten her had been hanged like common criminals, a shameful end for any anointed knight.

“H-has the king needed to behead anyone, my lord?” She could not imagine her brother Robb as she had known him at such a task but he is a king now and has a king’s responsibilities, her mother had said; and her father had needed to do it as well. _That was his duty. He never liked it._ It reassures her that her fierce husband does not like it either.

He grunts again, an affirmation. He has kept eating all the while he has been talking and only now looks up at Sansa.

“Forgive me, Sansa: I tell you to eat and then ruin your appetite with grisly talk of beheadings.” He reaches across the table to pat her hand comfortingly though he looks pained to have caused her grief.

“I…forgive me, my lord; but I cannot but think of the fate of my lord father,” she whispers shakily.

He shakes his great shaggy head ruefully at his mistake and pats her hand again. “All in the North feels his loss. I’m very sorry, Sansa.”

 _My fault._ She takes a quavering breath now. “So am I.”

Later Sansa cannot resist tidying their bed before the servants return and the nurse brings their children.

“Sing, Mother, please,” young Eddard looks up to her and asks courteously; and his father laughs.

“Young Eddard is a bird too now; though not a capon. Show me how you draw your sword, boy; and your mother will sing for us.”

Sansa holds her daughter and sings for her family and wishes in her heart that it could stay like this, that it could have always been like this; almost like her family in Winterfell. But now she is not only an unloved exile from her own family but an adulteress carrying a bastard child. _How have I let myself come to this? All because I wanted love?_ With a dull shock she realizes that Cersei’s ugly words from the day of her first flowering had come to pass:

 _Do you want to be loved, Sansa?_ The Queen had asked.

 _Everyone wants to be loved_ , she had replied because that is what she had truly believed.

The Queen had scoffed in her cold manner: _I see flowering hasn’t made you any brighter…Sansa permit me to share a bit of womanly wisdom with you on this very special day. Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same._

She had wanted to be loved and so she had dishonored her lord, her family and his and even her children and mostly herself; just as Cersei had done. Cersei, who she hated.

_I never wanted to be like her, not after she betrayed me and killed my father. She had no love in her; how could she possibly know what love would do to a person? How could I have behaved the same way when I believed completely different?_

Mayhaps the gods were punishing her for her pride. When King Renly had told the court that she was a princess of the North, the many nobles and even soldiers and servants who had shunned her now bowed and curtsied as she passed, and those who had stood by and let her father stand condemned for treason now praised him for his bravery and his honor. Those who had sentenced her father to die had died in turn. Sansa remembers the throne room that day: how Cersei had coldly denied that her children were bastards born of incest and that she had plotted to kill King Robert, and claimed that she was being sent to the block an innocent woman. Joffrey had sobbed, and blamed his mother for his cruel and short rule and pleaded to the new king for mercy, calling him uncle. The court had jeered and laughed at him. It was Lancel’s words that had condemned Cersei: he admitted to adultery with the queen and to offering drugged wine to King Robert on his fatal boar hunt. He had wanted to die with a clear conscience and expressed his remorse before the king and the gods, and King Renly had acknowledged his honesty and told him that he would have the mercy of dying first. Queen Cersei had gone last, and had watched her craven son die; as had Sansa who had stood with the King and his pretty young queen, Margaery Tyrell throughout the executions. Janos Slynt had died by the sword during the battle for Kings Landing. Grand Maester Pycelle had swallowed a vial of sweetsleep; and Littlefinger had escaped his cell in the Red Keep by bribing a guard but then had been beaten and kicked to death by his own whores when trying to flee the city with a strongbox of gold and gems and promise notes from the Iron Bank of Braavos that he had retrieved from his brothel. Only the spider Varys and the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, had escaped. Sansa had watched and heard it all with dignified composure but had felt a deep satisfaction, and trusted that she would now have a happy life after her suffering at the hands of cruel people. _The gods are just_ , she had thought then and believed that her prayers had been answered and her father and his honor avenged.

 _My father would be ashamed of me now for I have not his honor,_ and that hurt most of all; but then she thought that her father had also taken a lover, or even just a wench, and brought home a bastard and the world did not condemn him for betraying his wife and family. Only her mother had suffered for it and she had needed to do so silently, without complaining. Her father had still been considered an honorable man. Sansa could do the same though secretly; she could raise her bastard with her true family and be devoted to her true lord as her father had been to his lady wife and she could try to restore honor to herself, at least in her own heart. She may no longer be a true lady; but she could be a true Stark. Then mayhaps no one would be hurt by her actions and no one would ever know.

Almost no one.


	11. Chapter 11

Young Eddard looks uncertainly at the ancient face carved into the weirwood tree in the center of the godswood at Last Hearth. The Greatjon kneels and speaks solemnly to him.

 “These are our gods, boy, the old gods of the North: the children of the forest built these godswoods for the First Men. Pray to them and honor them and be a good man, and they’ll watch over you. That’s why we give them eyes to see.”

The boy looks to his mother; and Sansa nods reassuringly to him. She is pleased to be part of this: her husband’s teachings to his son, and wonders fleetingly if he did the same with his first son and those who came after, and if his first wife accompanied them to the godwood as well. She is not jealous, but only wonders if she is being made a part of his family’s traditions and is happy to think that it is so. _I am a Stark, but I can also be an Umber if it please him, and teach our children to be Umbers._

As her husband talks she turns to the tree and says her own prayer: _Help me to do what is right by them, and please do not let them be hurt by my failings._

_Sansa._

She lifts her head, startled; and leans closer to the trunk of the massive tree, and places her hand on its white bark.

“Sansa?”

She turns to look at her husband and son who are looking at her curiously.

“I-I wanted to offer my own prayers…for my family,” she smiles shakily at them.

“You see?” the Greatjon tells his son. “Your mother is a true Northerner.”

Sansa looks searchingly up into the red leaves and but hears only the wind rustling through the tops of the branches.

_Bran?_

…….

Sansa does not slip away to the north tower at midday as she normally does. The Smalljon has been gone to patrol the Lonely Hills, but she worries about his return. Will he hear the talk about the lord and lady of the castle retiring to their chamber at midday after ordering the servants out of the hallway? They have been dining in their chambers as well, and the servants who bring their meal say their bed has been tumbled and they are dressed only in robes. Lord Umber is flushed and smiling broadly; Lady Umber is flushed and smiling serenely. She no longer wears her long auburn hair tightly bound and braided, but held back by combs and falling down her back. Her gowns are looser and her maid says it is because her belly has begun to swell but some of the coarser servants jest that it is to give their lord less troublesome access to Lady Umber’s charms.

This midday Sansa lies on their bed naked as the Greatjon traces his fingertips is swirls across her gently rounded belly. Sometimes is tickles and she giggles and bats his hand away, only to have him kiss her belly and resume his feather-light touches.

“You’re as ticklish as young Eddard,” he chides her mildly but he smiles at her.

The next times she bats his hand, he rises from their bed. Sansa sits up and feels contrite.

“Forgive me, but I cannot help being ticklish. Will you call for our meal now; or shall we dress and to the hall?”

He smiles and walks around the bed closer to her and reaches for her ankles.

“It is too soon for our meal, Sansa though I will eat,” he almost growls.

Before she can question him, he pulls her to the edge of the bed and runs his great hands up the inside of her legs. Thinking he means to take her, Sansa lies back and waits for him to climb over her. Instead he kneels between her knees and begins to kiss up her leg. His beard tickles and so she giggles again and still he does not rise. When he kisses her with his whole mouth right between her legs, Sansa squeaks in protest and tries to squirm away from him, but his hands hold firmly onto her hips and he soothes her.

“Hush now, Sansa; be still,” he murmurs against her skin and she bites her lip in trepidation and obeys.

She can feel his lips kiss every part of her down there, and then she feels his tongue tracing her outline and she gasps and writhes and, _oh gods be good,_ his tongue slips inside her and she clutches the furs beneath her hands and arches and calls out to him and finally peaks with a shudder. Now he climbs over her and turns her over carefully and he thrusts into her slow and deep so that she tilts her hips back to feel him better and he bucks his hips sharply and keeps bucking and settles his elbows beside her head and pants into her hair.

“Sansa…gods, my Sansa.”

“Yes,” is all she says before he groans his completion and kisses her shoulder and pulls out of her body carefully. He rolls onto his side and curls himself around her. He rubs her belly again now.

“We’ll needs mind the babe soon…eventually,” he breathes. He has never taken her so many different ways before; and he never touched her after her belly swelled with Serena. When she carried Eddard, she had still had her own chamber. He had never even felt them kick inside her.

“But when, my lord? I confess, I do not know,” she blushes at her ignorance and to remember how quickly and how much things have changed between them. “Mayhaps I should inquire of the maester-“

“Blast him,” he retorted angrily, “a lot he knows-“ He stops short then. “Pardons, Sansa; but Berena will know best about such things,” he counsels her. Her husband had always shown an unwavering respect for the old mountain woman and Sansa believes it is because she had known his first wife.

“As you say, my lord,” she replies humbly.

Suddenly there is noise and voices and running footsteps in the hallway and the Greatjon furrows is greying brows in anger since he had ordered the servants away. He grabs a fur from the bed and stomps to the door as Sansa hastily slips into her robe. He opens the door with a forceful yank and a squealing of hinges and he shouts to rattle the very beams and walls.

“Are my orders to be disregarded now? Who told you to disturb-“

Sansa recognizes the big, stern man who leads the garrison, but his face is not stern but stricken, and he bows apologetically to his lord.

“Pardons, m’lord, but there’s riders approaching and those on the walls say there’s men slung across their saddles,” he informs him breathlessly. Sansa’s own breath catches now, as this can only mean dead or wounded men.

“Is it Smalljon’s patrol?” the Greatjon asks numbly.

“I believe so, m’lord.” He sees that he and Sansa are not dressed properly and swallows awkwardly. “I…I’ll send for the maester to meet them, m’lord.”

Sansa and the Greatjon dress in haste, even shoving their bare feet into their boots before wrapping themselves in fur-lined cloaks. Her husband forgets his gloves and Sansa hurries after him with them in her hands, only to realize that she has forgotten her own.

When they emerge into the yard, and gates have been opened and the sun has already begun to set: the sky above the castle walls is vivid with pinks and violet and orange and the snow is tinged with blue under the white surface where it is unmarred by footprints and horses’ hooves. The beauty of the North is a harsh beauty but it stirs her nevertheless. The breaths of men and beasts fog in white gusts in the cold and the air hits Sansa with a frigid blast and makes her shiver violently. She clutches her hands together beneath her cloak and watches helplessly as servants stream out behind her with torches in the fading light.

Shouting men are leading whinnying horses into the yard and the men riding them are dirty and ragged and bleeding; and they are the fortunate ones. Over the saddles of three horses are the bodies of dead men. Sansa knows they are dead because they are not wearing their cloaks but are covered by them, and their arms hang down limply and their hands are dark with stagnant blood. Their horses are skittish and have been led by their reins by the other men.

_Gods be good: do not let him be hurt; or at least do not let him be…._

The Greatjon goes to the first corpse and grabs it by the hair and lifts it so he can see the man’s face. He growls low in his throat and shakes his head angrily but it is not his son, she knows, and so he moves to the next one but it is growing darker by the minute and still she does not see him among the mounted men who are riding through the gates. And then she does.

“My lord!” She calls to her husband and runs to him and points wordlessly to the Smalljon who is the last man through the gates before they are closed behind him. He is weary and his face is filthy but his bearing in unbowed and so she is relieved, both for herself and for her husband. The Greatjon’s face does not change from its grim expression but he does look more determined as he makes his way through the horses and bodies towards his son who has dismounted. He turns to his father now.

“Wildlings?” his father asks shortly.

“Aye; not a great many but big and well-armed: they had steel-“

“Did you kill them?” the Greatjon growls threateningly.

The Smalljon puts his hand on his father’s shoulder and nods. “All of them: every one,” he replies assuredly.

His father grips his son’s shoulder and curls his lip into a sneer. “Good,” he says simply, and they embrace heartily as men do but Sansa knows it is the only way they know how. She had seen her father and uncle Benjen do the same, as had Robb and Jon when they parted last before Jon left to join the Nights Watch. She feels like an intruder now, to sees their deep affection, and is ashamed. But still she walks towards them now and the Smalljon sees her over his father’s shoulder and stares coldly and pulls away from his father then.

She approaches more hesitantly now.

“Lord Jon, we are relieved to see you returned alive, and unharmed, I hope?”

“I am only slightly wounded, my lady; the other men are worse and we bring home three of our dead.”

“I am sorry,” she offers sincerely.

“Take them into the hall,’ the Greatjon orders the soldiers standing around watching now. “Lay them out on tables and let all the castle show their respect. They fought and died for House Umber and the North.”

The soldiers obey him somberly and the Greatjon reaches to his son and pats him on the back as they make to follow. Sansa follows after them.

 _I will tell the kitchens to keep food warm and to set some on a table in a smaller room so that men may feed themselves. They must make strong broth for the wounded…_ But her thoughts are broken when her husband suddenly turns to her as though he has only just remembered that she is with him.

“Go back to our chambers, Sansa. You don’t need to see this in your condition,” he tells her gently but wearily.

Sansa lifts her chin. “They fought and died for House Umber and the North, my lord, and I am the Lady of House Umber and sister to the King in the North. It is my duty and my honor to attend them.” When she sees him hesitate, she leans closer. “Did you not say yourself that I am more woman now than girl? I pray you let me stand with you, my lord; I have seen men die,” she reminds him.

He puts his great hands on her shoulders and leans towards her as though to speak but instead he looks down on her and nods once, and offers her his arm wordlessly. She rests her hand inside his elbow and walks beside him now, and soldiers and servants bow their heads as they pass and Sansa has a fleeting memory of being led into the throne room of the Red Keep on the arm on one of King Renly’s Rainbow Guard but she pushes that thought away and tightens her grip on her husband’s arm.

He must feel it because he leans slightly and quietly tells her: “You can still change your mind, Sansa.”

Sansa sees Lord Jon standing by a table before a dead man, waiting for them to approach and replies clearly: “I will not change my mind….my lord.”


	12. Chapter 12

Though the Greatjon had sent her to bed many hours ago, Sansa still lies awake when he quietly lets himself in to their chamber. He sheds his clothes and lifts the furs of their bed and slides in carefully next to her. Wordlessly, she moves closer to him and reaches a slender arm across his massive chest and rests her head on his shoulder.

“Did they have families of their own, my lord?” she whispers.

After a pause he replies: “No…and now they never will.”

After a moment she begins to cry softly. Her husband holds her tighter.

…….

There is much to be done in the castle. Sansa accompanies her husband to visit the parents of one dead man and the mother of another and to offer their sympathies and thanks for giving their sons for Last Hearth. Kitchen girls carry baskets of food and she knows that the Greatjon has tucked some silver stags in the baskets to help ease their lives for the long winter. They tearfully thank their lord and curtsey to their lady and invoke the memory of her father and the name of the King in the North.

“Please know that my lord father felt a great debt of gratitude for any man who fought and gave his life for the North; and King Robb will feel the same. You have the gratitude and sympathy of House Umber _and_ House Stark,” she tells them as she holds their hands to comfort them.

The Greatjon stops her with a hand on her shoulder as they take their leave and looks on her proudly despite his stern expression which Sansa knows is to cover his sadness.

“You comfort them better than I ever could, Sansa. You are light of my house,” he leans closer, “and my life.”

Sansa looks up with fondness at his great shaggy-maned face and kind eyes and feels her own eyes brim with tears.

“It pleases me to share your burdens, my lord; and to ease them if I can.” _I will come to love him; I know I will: he is so very kind beneath his fierceness. He is strong and gentle and brave…as my father wished for me._

She has visited the wounded men as well, and has gone with her husband to the Smalljon’s chamber with the maester. He has a gash to his upper arm that has been cleaned and bound with linens, and cuts to his hand as well, and though he dismisses all concerns, the master bids him not train for a sennight so that the deeper cut should heal over and not bleed any more.

He has not spoken to her, and now he does not meet her eyes but he is easier with his father, she has noted, and something of their old camaraderie had been restored by the wildling attack. Sansa knows that fighting and killing are the duties of men and that their experiences are something she will never comprehend nor share with them, but despite the blood and death it brings, she is glad that they have this bond.

She surmises that because of the restrictions of his injury, he go to the north tower the next day and she is right. He is standing at a window with his back to the door, to her, and it is the same window where they stood together and he kissed her the first time.

 _We musn’t_ , she had said then; but they had.

“My lady,” he greets her quietly without turning around.

“Lord Jon,” she says softly without approaching him. There was a time she would have run into his arms because she could not be close enough to him. Though she knows it is wrong, she does miss him and the love they shared: it seemed at one time that it was all she had lived for. “I hope that you are healing well…”  She stops talking because she knows anything she has to say will come out wrong somehow.

“Do you know what I was thinking when I was strapping dead men to their saddles, my lady?” he asks now. “I was thinking: why could it not have been him?”

She knows who he means by _him_ and Sansa catches her breath and is frightened but when he turns to finally look at her she sees his face is sad and not angry, as she had feared.

“My own father,” he says before she can answer him, “who taught me to swing a sword and kill wildlings so as to protect myself and these lands and its people.”

“Lord Jon, I know you love Last Hearth and your lands and people…and your father; and it hurts me terribly to know that I have come between you. I- I am so ashamed,” she whispers hoarsely.

“I have betrayed my own father; I also should be ashamed.” He looks at her for so long that she clutches her hands together helplessly. “The gods only know how much I hated myself at that moment, hated myself for loving you.” He looks at her now with the same cold eyes she remembers from the yard.

“I am sorry-“ she begins.

“I am not,” he interrupts her. “I can hate myself but I cannot seem to be sorry that I have loved you, my lady, I- I know I should because it was never my intention, you see; but you were so unhappy that I wanted to help you, to be your friend…and for you to love Last Hearth as I do.” He shakes his head now and then looks yearningly to her, a look she knows so well. “You are so beautiful and so gentle and you were so lost…and I did not…I still do not know how to be a friend to a lady, I confess; unless they are ale-drinking Mormont women in breeches and mail…”

“I confess that I also do not know how to be simply a friend to a man, Lord Jon; perhaps if I did…I would have liked very much to have had a friend.”

“I _am_ sorry for what I have done to us, my lady,” he tells her.

“Please,” she pleads, “you must not fault yourself alone, for it was not all your doing: I came here on my own, not just once but many times…surely you cannot blame yourself for all that has happened. I – I must also live with what we have done.”

He looks at her now and drops his eyes to her middle. He takes a deep breath.

“Is it mine…is the child mine?” he finally asks her.

She wonders if it is better to lie, and to at least let him live with a clear conscience and nothing to tie him to her; but she cannot lie because she has done that enough already.

“Lord Jon, I…I fear that I am not certain.” She takes a great wavering breath now and speaks her heart plainly. “I wish that I knew but I do not but...if it _were_ yours…what then could we do? Even if- even if it had been…if I were no longer married,” she forces herself to say, “we could never be together. Surely you must know that,” she asks of him now. “We could never be married, or live together: no one would accept it, certainly not your family or mine or King Robb. He would be like to marry me to another lord within time; and I would have no choice but to obey.” She is anguished to tell him these things, as much for her own sake as for his, but she also knows them to be true. “We would have to run away, and leave Last Hearth, and the North: that is something I could never ask of you for I know how much you love Last Hearth, you love it more than me… _much_ more than you could ever love me.”

He blinks and looks on her fondly with sadness. “Do you know me so well, my lady?”

She nods solemnly now. “I know this.”

He looks away and back to her. “We cannot undo this-” he begins uncertainly.

“No, Lord Jon: we cannot, but we can do this no longer…” she tells him softly. “Is that not what you wished to tell me now? Is that not why you waited for me to come to you this day?”

He shuts his eyes tightly and makes fists of his hands, but then he opens his eyes and Sansa sees they are as determined as they are despondent.

“I fear it is…my lady.”

Sansa nods tearfully. Though this is what she wanted and it is what she knows is right, she finds that she is overwhelmed with emotion. She had loved him; she will probably always love him when she thinks of herself as a lonely, unhappy girl but she also does not want to be that girl anymore. She never wants to be that girl again.

“Please know that I shall always cherish you for your love-“

“Gods, do not say that, my lady,” he interrupts hoarsely now, “How am I to live alongside you and my father when I know that you care for me, and the child…the child-“

“The child will be an Umber,” she tells him feelingly, “and you will be within your rights to love it as your own family. But any child of my body will, by the laws of gods and men, be your father’s, unless…” She almost cannot bring herself to say it. “Unless he has cause to doubt,” she finishes.

The Smalljon nods and sniffles and nods again.

“On my life, my lady, he will never have cause to doubt. I could never bring myself to cause such harm to him, or to the child…or to you, my lady.”

She looks at him and she smiles faintly for the first time though it is through tears of gratitude. “I do not doubt you, Lord Jon. I know that you would never want to harm us.”

Sansa knows in her heart that he could never bring such shame and scorn on his family as their illicit union would doubtlessly cause, any more than she could bring herself to do so. The Greatjon would be humiliated into taking vengeance: no Northerner could let his reputation or his honor be so greatly damaged, and his vengeance would needs be a fearsome one but even then would still not be like to ever blot out the stain on House Umber or on House Stark. 

“We have done ourselves great harm already, I fear; and great dishonor.”

“We have,” she acknowledges, “and so we must act to restore that honor as best we can. It is my intention to devote myself to my lord and to our family and to House Umber,” she looks up at him carefully and sees him swallow his grief at her words.

“Mayhaps then…mayhaps it would be best if I were to leave for a time,” he wonders aloud. “I could go to serve the King at Winterfell,” he muses.

“I have no wish to drive you from your home, Lord Jon; will you permit me to make another suggestion, though I fear it is not my place?”

He looks at her curiously and so she presses on.

“You father wishes you to marry; and I urge you with all my heart to consider this; not for his sake, though it would please him, but for your own. My dear Lord Jon, you are a good man and you have so much love to give: any lady would be happy to share her life with you. And you should have children of your own, that you may love as your own. Please accept this suggestion as my sincere wish for your own happiness which I desire as much as my own if not more, for I feel at fault for taking away your happiness...” _and the joy of your firstborn child,_ she thinks, “and for making you feel that you should needs leave Last Hearth.”

He appears to think for a moment. “He will doubtless command me to wed the Lady Alys…” he supposes.

Sansa shakes her head. “He will not, Lord Jon; this he told me in confidence. He does not seek an alliance; only a lady he thinks worthy of you and of Last Hearth,” she smiles gently and encouragingly at him now. “He- he also wishes for you to be happy.”

They stand face-to –face and he reaches for her hand and holds it in his. “And will you be happy…my lady?”

 _I will not lie._ “Yes, Lord Jon: I will be happy,” she tells him truthfully.

“Then that is all can I ask of you now,” he raises her hand to kiss it and gives her a long look. “I will always want your happiness.”

Sansa feels her throat tighten and can barely answer. “Thank you, Lord Jon.”

“Go now, my lady,” he urges gently.

Sansa turns from him and he lets go of her hand and she is so overcome that she runs as she did the first time she fled from him in the tower. She runs as though her very life and honor depend on it, which she knows now to be true, even more than the first time. _I have done the right thing_ , she tells herself as she rounds the steep steps, _we have done right by each other and will do right from now on. We can make it right._ She slows her steps now to catch her breath but her skirts still swirl around her and it is too late now, too late to stop her foot getting caught in her hem and too late to grasp a handhold in the stones and too late to cry for help or even to cry out as she pitches forward violently with all the momentum of her running escape and the rough, worn wooden boards at the base of the stairs rush up at a sickening speed to meet her headlong flight.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of miscarriage.

No beating has ever hurt this badly before; and Sansa cannot remember what she has done to make Joffrey so angry.

 _Robb must have won a very great victory,_ she thinks now and though she is happy for him, she wants to weep and whimper from the pain. _Even my face hurts. He must have given them leave to hit my face; he always said he liked me pretty._

Mayhaps she isn’t pretty anymore. That makes her want to weep too. She seems to remember there is a man who likes to look at her and who tells her that she is beautiful. _He won’t want to look at me anymore…gods, why is it so cold?_

She suddenly realizes that she must be in a black cell, just like the kind where they had kept her father. Terror rises in her heart and she can feel it beating, so hard and fast.

_They’re going to take my head. They’re going to execute me just like they executed my father. Robb: hurry! Help me, please; I don’t want to die. I want to go home. Please let me go home: I’ll do no treason, I promise._

But wanting to go home _is_ treason to Joffrey. She is supposed to love him, and to want to be his queen and have his babies.

_Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants._

That man tried to help her, and told her what Joffrey wanted; but it hasn’t ever been enough somehow and this time the pain is nigh unbearable.

_I don’t want Joffrey anyway. I want another man: the kind man. I want to have his babies. Please let him come for me. I don’t want to die here._

She does not know how long she has been in this cold cell. She hopes they have forgotten her, and then mayhaps someone will come in time to save her.

The next thing she knows is that someone _is_ coming, many people are coming: she can hear their shouts and their running footsteps. She wonders if she is being brought up to die, and she hurts so much and is so very tired now that she almost does not care anymore.

“MY LORD! OVER HERE!” Someone is shouting over her and then she feels the someone is closer and leaning over her.

“My lady? My lady?” And the someone’s voice is gentle and worried and…and… _Northern, gods be good: can it be?_ And then her heart quickly fills with relief and elation but even that is unbearable and she feels all her pain at once and she is again lost in the lonely darkness of her black cell.

…….

The mob must have pulled her from her horse and made her fall to the cobblestones because she hurts all over, and they are pinching her and kicking her and biting her though she has never done them hurt. She feels them hold her down now and she wishes the Northern man would come back and save her; but instead she tries to struggle to be free and they shout at each other to keep her down and their grip on her limbs is harder and they will not let her rise and run.

“Hold her still! I must tie the splint tightly. She must not move.”

There must be a great many of them because they blot out the light and no one comes to push her back onto her horse. The women are there, the women like weasels, and they have the knives that tear at her and turn her into shiny wet ribbons of blood down there and there is so much blood that it feels warm and sticky and… _no, please; please, no: the queen will see and they’ll marry me to Joffrey and make me lay with him. Make it stop, please; make the bleeding stop._

“I fear there is naught I can do, my lord: the child is lost.”

_Yes, I’m a child. I’m only a girl; I’m not a woman yet. I cannot bleed so much and feel so much pain. Let me go, please. Let me go home._

A warm, strong hand brushes her hair back from her brow and someone kisses her forehead but she still hurts and bleeds. Now a softer voice says:

“She needs rest now, as do you. I will stay with her, milord.”

Sansa knows that _this_ woman will not hurt her. This woman helped her once, the other time she bled so much, and said that she was only a girl but that she would heal.

_Yes, I will heal. Help me to heal._

…….

It is so terribly hot. Sansa is so hot that she cannot bear it and yet she is covered with furs and a fire burns in the chamber and she feels dull and wet and heavy and she can scarcely breathe.

_They are burning the kingswood, on Lord Tyrion’s orders. Lord Renly comes to take Kings Landing. He defeated his brother Lord Stannis and he will defeat Joffrey and he will send me home._

“How did this happen, Father?”

“She…she fell down some stairs, it seems.”

_The stairs, the Serpentine, but I did not fall; he caught me. He saved me from the mob and he saved me from falling. He likes to kill people but he tries to save me. Why am I on fire? He hates fire._

“The north tower stairs? Will she…will she live?”

“The maester says the fever must run its course, but Berena… It’s Berena I trust with her. Will you help us?”

_They decide whether I will live or die! The queen must have sent them. She said she did not mean for Renly to have us alive._

They begin to pull at her and she wants to cry for help. _The Northern man will come but these men are Northern, so why do they try to hurt me?_

“That’s it, Sansa, sit up now. Drink this, you must drink.”

The voice is deep and kind and he wants her to drink and she is so hot and thirsty but the queen has sent him and so she must not trust him. He does not want her to go home to Winterfell.

“Drink, my lady, you will feel better.”

Now someone holds her head and pinches her nose and they pour the warm liquid down her throat and she cannot stop them and she knows not what she is drinking: it is not water, nor wine…

_Poison! They are giving me poison. Cersei said it was poison, a sweet poison but it would kill me all the same._

“That will do it, milord,” the woman who heals says now but she has killed her by holding her head and pouring sweet poison down her throat.

_That will do it._

…….

 _Why is there a bear sleeping in my chamber?_ He is great big and furry and sleeps upright in a chair with his head to one side and he has a great big snore and she should be frightened but it is funny, like one of Old Nan’s stories. _The girl who woke to find a bear in her chamber; or mayhaps “The Bear and the Maiden Fair.”_ It is a song and she loves songs. She starts to hum the song.

“Milady?”

Someone stirs next to her, not the side with the bear, and she sees the woman who helps her and she knows this woman. Yes, this woman is her nurse; no, that is wrong: she is her children’s nurse. She has children. She has two children by the bear. But he is not a bear; he is her husband, and a Northerner. And there will be another child soon but not by the bear either-

“Sansa? Sansa, are you awake?”

The man who is her husband is next to her suddenly, he is sitting next to her and he is holding her face in his hands, his hands are so very big, and he is looking at her as though he is searching for something he has lost.

“M’ lor’…” she tries to say but it hurts to speak, her throat is so dry; and her face hurts and she wonders why she cannot see properly, almost as though her eyes will not open completely but only a little.

“Can you hear me, Sansa?” he asks her gently. “Do you know where you are?”

She looks around as much as she can and wonders why he asks this of her. This is their chamber, they are at Last Hearth. It is his home, and hers. She nods slowly.

“Hurt,” she manages to force out but despite her straining effort she can barely hear it.

“Yes,” he tells her gravely. “Yes, my sweet, beautiful Sansa…you were badly hurt; but you will be well now. We will see to it, I promise you. You will not hurt anymore. Berena, she is hurting still.”

Sansa turns slightly to the woman who helps her and her children and she is holding a cup in her hands and wants Sansa to drink it now.

“Poison,” she remembers vaguely.

‘Willow bark, milady: for your pain. Drink as much or as little as you can now.”

Sansa tries to sit up but she has not the strength and so the man who is her husband helps her to sit up and takes the cup to hold it to her lips because she tries to reach for it but there is a stick of wood and some linens tied around her arm that they hold her arm straight so that she cannot bend it or use her hand.

“The maester will come to see about your arm, milady. Your leg too. We had to tie splints so that you did not-“

“Babe,” she says now and they stare and do not answer and so she thinks mayhaps she did not speak clearly or out loud. They do not understand her.

“B-babe…bay-bee,” she is trying to speak clearly but her face still hurts so she will asks for a looking glass when they answer her, but they don’t. _Why don’t they answer me?_ She concentrates and tries to ask again but before she can her husband reaches to her with the hand that does not hold the cup and tenderly touches the side of her face that does not hurt.

“Sansa…” Her husband who is kind to her is looking at her sadly. She remembers that he looked sad once when people died and so she knows, she knows the babe has died and he is sad.

“’m sorry,” she whispers to him. He is so sad. She is sad for him.

“Drink, Sansa; and you’ll feel better soon.”

Her husband holds the cup to her lips and she drinks the warm liquid and the warm tears run down her cheeks and she is still looking at him because she is sorry, she is so very sorry to have caused him this sadness. She finishes the tea and he smiles faintly and hands the cup to the woman and Sansa wants to touch him. One hand and arm are bound and so she cannot touch him, but the other hand can reach and so she slowly brings shaky fingers to the bearded face and she starts to cry. She cries because she is sad too, and _empty_ ; suddenly she feels so empty and she hurts and she wants him to hold her and he does. He holds her and she cries and whispers she is sorry and he pats her back and stokes her hair and she can feel him shaking under all the furs he wears. He really is a great big bear of a man and she wants to be his maiden fair but she is hurt and sad and empty so she cries instead.

“It’s alright, Sansa. You’ll be alright now. Rest now, Sansa, and you’ll be well again,” he reassures her but his voice is still sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to Littlefeather for telling me about willow bark and its use in Native medicine.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of a septic miscarriage

When Sansa wakes again, it is Berena who sits in the chair and knits by the light of the heart fire. Sansa watches her for a while, thinking that the practice looks interesting if rudimentary. Servants and commons knit woolens; high-born girls and ladies sew with fine stitches and do fancy needlework such as embroidery. She remembers when she was expecting her first child, how the Greatjon had her choose from bolts of fine wool and even velvets brought from White Harbor for her gowns. Northerners did not usually care for finery but he had seemed to like to make gifts to her. Her gowns were made for her, and still are; leaving her the choice of cuts and colours, though she finishes them with her own embroidered embellishments. Now she sews and embroiders her daughter’s little dresses and she stitches the Umber sigil or bold borders in Umber colours on her son’s tunics. But Young Eddard wants to wear furs like his father and Sansa lets him, and smiles to see it. Though he is a big boy for his age and has the look of an Umber, his head of auburn curls remind her of her little brother Rickon.

As she is watching her, Berena glances her way and rises when she sees that Sansa is awake.

“Can I bring you anything, milady?”

Sansa nods. “Water, please.”

The old woman helps her to sit up and holds the pewter cup for her as she drinks thirstily. “The maester is like to come in the morning and check your arm and leg, milady.”

Sansa’s bound limbs feel even stiffer than the rest of her body and now that she is awake, she finds the splints uncomfortable. But she knows her fever is gone and her pain is less, so much less than it had been.

 “Berena, do you know who found me?”

“I only know it was a soldier from the garrison. The lord had every man looking and was ready to send them out into the winter night beyond the castle walls when old Mors…beggin’ your pardon, milady: the lord’s uncle Mors, he remembered you was always asking after the stores in the north tower. That’d be where they found you, milady.”

_The winter stores,_ Sansa thought now, and she feels ashamed because she would ask about the stores in the tower to know if she could visit there and be with Lord Jon without being discovered.

“I- I fell…” she begins to say.

“Aye, milady: that’s what they say. Do you remember what happened? The maester said you mightn’t.”

“I- Yes, I remember falling,” she says and then she lies. _Will I never be done with lying?_ “I thought they were to bring stores and then I remembered it was not that day and so turned around to go back… My foot caught in my gown,” she is whispering to recount what happened now, because it frightens her still. She remembers her terror, the sickening instant she realized that she could not stop herself, that she would be hurt, possibly killed; but mostly she was certain then that she would be caught in the tower and her shameful secret found out. _Just when I had resolved to do right._ But Mors’ memory, and her own lies, had saved her, in every way.

She looks at Berena now. “I could not stop myself falling: I knew it would be very bad…somehow…I just _knew_.”

“T’was very bad, milady,” the old woman agrees quietly. “But you’re mending now; and that’s what matters.”

“Was…” she hesitates but she needs to know. “Was my lord…was he…”

“He was,” she says simply. “Never thought to ever see fear in that man’s face until they told him they couldn’t find you, milady; and then again when they did find you.”

“But why would he think to send men outside the walls at night, and in winter? I would never have ventured beyond the walls without escort. My lord commanded so when I came to live at Last Hearth.”

“Wildlings, milady,” she tells her almost as though she were simple. “They was able to come near very recently, remember? And Mors always thinks it’d be wildlings at fault for anything; but a missing woman…well, he went on so long and so loud that you must’ve been carried off that the lord almost looked to believe him. You know about Mors’ girl, milady?”

Sansa nods; even as a girl at Winterfell, everyone knew that once an Umber girl that been abducted by wildlings and never seen again. She closes her eyes to think of her husband’s ordeal. _He feared that I had been carried off by wildlings._ Though she supposes that believing that she was with another man who was a wildling is better than knowing she had been with his own son. Now she remembers that Berena said that the maester would come in the morning.

“Is it night? Where is my lord?”

“He sleeps in your old chamber, milady; he is too big for any pallet we brought and so he slept sitting up in this chair until you woke earlier.”

She smiles faintly to remember. “Like a bear,” she murmurs to herself.

The old woman smiles at that as well. “Aye, milady; I expect he can be very much like a bear…and so you should be his maiden fair, then.”

Sansa smiles wider now but then winces at the pain. “May I…could you bring me my looking glass, Berena.”

The old woman pats her hand and shakes her head. “Best you wait a bit more, milady: you’re still swollen and bruised on one side though it’s much less than it was. Your eye was swelled shut and you was all purple and blue. You took quite a beating when you fell, I’d say, milady.”

_I have taken beatings before this,_ she thinks stubbornly, _and an entire king’s court looked upon me_. But Berena is holding out something to her, something that is not her looking glass.

“A water skin I left to freeze outside, milady: wrap it in this linen and hold it to your face and it will bring the swelling down and ease the pain a mite. And I’ll brew you more willow bark tea anytime you feel the need too,” she tells her kindly.

Sansa takes it slowly and her eyes begin to brim with warm tears. “You must think me a horrible monster to ask about my face when…when I…” The tears course down her cheeks now and she cannot stop them any more than she can stop the renewed sobbing that shakes her shoulders and wracks her body with more of the same deep, dull pain she had felt the first time she cried to learn that she had lost her child.

“There, there,” the woman says soothingly as she rubs Sansa’s back and holds her gently. “I couldn’t never think ill of you, milady. You were a pretty maid and now you’re a beautiful woman and you want to stay that way…doubtless you believe that’s why people love you; but it’s not. You’re sweet and gentle and kind-hearted; and you’re brave and you do your duty by your family and your people, and you do it well. But you’ll be pretty again soon enough; why, even with that bruising your looks put many a lady to shame. Now, now,” she soothes her again.

“Buh-but, but I lost my buh-buh-babe,” she blurts miserably through her huffing sobs, “and it was all my fuh-fuh-fault.”

“Nay, milady: an accident is no one’s fault so don’t you be blaming yourself for it. I know how you love your children. I know this is a hard blow for you. Mourn your babe, milady: that is right, but don’t be thinking there was aught you could have done different ‘cause there weren’t.”

“M-my- my lord is so sad,” she whispers hoarsely. She can still see his sad face.

“As is right, milady: it was as much his babe as yours. But men bear these losses better; and though he mourns as well, I expect he was far more worried to think he’d lose you.”

“But why would he thuh-thuh-think that? Wuh-was I so very buh-bad as that?”

Berena puts her strong old hands on her shoulders to steady her and speaks plainly: “The fever was bad, milady: it came on quick and held strong Fevers can be deadly dangerous for a woman who has just birthed or lost a child. You remember from the birthing chamber: that after the babes came out there was the rest? It needs to leave the body as well, else it rots and turns to poison inside you.”

“P-poison,” she repeats dumbly. “You…you gave me something to drink…” She looks at her now.

The old woman nods though she seems surprised that Sansa knows this. “Aye, milady, it was moon tea…to help what did not bleed out leave your body. I feared the death of you if I hadn’t; and a slow, wretched death it can be, I know.”

Sansa thinks again. “Did my lord know this?”

“He did, milady, and he helped me too, as did the Lord Jon. We needed three to sit you up and hold you and get it in you. They left so I could tend you after, and they kept watch for the maester… He’s a good enough man with most sickness and the soldiers’ wounds milady, but like many he knows little of women compared to a midwife and mother who’s seen all. Your lord trusts me with that; some men don’t,” she states simply.

Sansa instinctively believes her words to be true. She knows that there are men who prefer to believe all women are stupid, or at least that they cannot possibly know as much or more than men. _Joffrey said I was stupid; he certainly would not have let me be tended had I fallen ill, much less have helped. He would have enjoyed watching me die and thought himself well rid of me._

“My lord _and_ Lord Jon?” she asks now.

“The lord and I thought to send for your maid to help when Lord Jon came to see about you, milady; he had rode to the village before supper and only just returned. He was a comfort to his father, he was; and told him the gods would not be so cruel as to take you now. When the lord asked him why ‘now’, he flushed and stammered like a green boy to say that he’d heard talk in the village tavern that the lord and his young lady were…were…making each other very happy of late, milady,” she finishes delicately.

“Oh,” Sansa flushes herself now. _It was not enough to order them from the hallway, it seems: my lord can be heard peaking in the yard if not all the way to the village._ She is embarrassed but strangely pleased as well. But when she thinks again that both her husband and her lover…former lover…needed to help to save her life, she is suddenly overwhelmed and though Berena is kind she wishes to be alone.

“Might I trouble you for the willow bark tea now, Berena? I- I feel quite…”

“Right away, milady,” she bustles despite her age. “Shall I send your maid to sit with you?”

Sansa shakes her head. “I thank you but, no. I will be fine.”

But she is not fine. _I know how you love your children_ , the old woman had said, and she did truly. But young Eddard had been conceived on a night of fear and pain with man who, though her husband, was a near-stranger; and she had carried him when feeling desperately lonely and unloved. She had not wanted to be married, or a mother, or at Last Hearth; she had wanted to be a girl in Winterfell again, if only for a little longer. And Serena, her little bird daughter, had been got out of duty and carried with an attempt at a contented acceptance that had, in truth, been closer to a dull resignation. They had been at one time her only happiness; and even that happiness had not been enough to keep her from the arms of another man.

The child she had lost had been her first truly wanted child. Though it brought the fear and shame of her deceit along with the possible taint of bastardy, she had nevertheless had felt the joy that it may have been her lover’s; and then she had felt the hope that it may yet have been her husband’s, and that she could begin to somehow redeem herself by giving him a son or daughter that would make them both equally happy. Now the fear and the shame remained while the joy and the hope were all lost, as surely as her babe was lost.

_He was a comfort to his father, he was; and told him the gods would not be so cruel as to take you now._

The gods had not taken her, as Lord Jon had promised his father; but they had taken her babe and that seemed crueler still, for Sansa knew her failings were no fault of the babe’s. But the gods could not have taken her without the child, and so they had killed it to punish her and then made it turn to poison inside her.

_Love is poison._ Cersei had told her that, Cersei who watched her own son die and then died herself and Sansa had believed that it was the punishment of the gods.

_The gods are just_ , she had thought when she had seen those who had killed her father and had tormented her executed. How could she think them just then and cruel now? She had been left to suffer not only the loss of her babe but the sadness of two men, one of whom was its father, and the knowledge that no good had come of her weakness and terrible trespass. Now there was only sadness and loss and pain and her terrible, horrible guilt and grief. _My fault…again._

“The gods are just,” she whispers to herself now. _But justice can be so cruel._


	15. Chapter 15

Days pass and Sansa heals more as the maester removes the splint from her leg and makes her bend her knee and then her ankle and twists them every way before declaring them sound. He prompts her to stand and she finds she is weak and stiff and she takes a few halting, awkward steps before he bids her rest again. He calls for hot compresses and when he leaves Berena replaces them with frozen water skins full of ice and Sansa cannot but smile at her subterfuge even as she mourns her loss.

The Greatjon comes to visit her but he is still sad and he seems distant and Sansa apologizes again for her carelessness and their loss, which he waves away as he pats her hand or her head and once absently her foot and she feels again like he treats her as a girl and that they are once more bound only by duty and their vows in the godswood. _He cannot forgive me, it seems,_ and she realizes that she also mourns the loss of the time they shared together when she thought that he loved her, and she wished with all her heart to love him back.

He brings their children to see her now though, and tells them to mind their mother because she has been hurt. She curls her one good arm around her daughter as young Eddard tells her more every day about his training and about how he is going to kill wildings one day and Sansa furrows her brow and tries to smile for him but tells him that he must only kill if it is necessary, that it is his duty to keep others safe but not to like killing.

“But they come onto our lands and steal our food and our animals and our women, mother: I have to protect you and Serena,” he tells her with wide, innocent eyes.

 _I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful._ Her boy would needs live in that world, and be strong to survive.

“Of course, Eddard, you are right. You must do what you needs do to protect your family and our people. You father will teach you. My own father once said he knew of no man so fearless as your father,” and she smiles up to her husband who smiles back for her faintly. She remembers when he would smile at her with his whole face and she would dutifully smile back for him; now she feels he is the one being dutiful.

 _Gods be good: have I not been punished enough? Please let him love me again; I will do anything for him. I will never betray him or hurt him again, only do not let him not look upon me as though I have failed him._ But she had.

…….

“Lord Umber sends word that there are visitors in the castle, my lady,” her maid tells her, and Sansa lets the girl brush her hair and dress her in her deep blue wool robe with a silvery fur collar and she sits up in bed and waits. She touches her sore cheek with the pads of her fingers and feels the swelling is gone and prays that she looks presentable. Berena brings her children then and she smiles in delight even as she feels foolish for having expected anyone else. Her husband will laugh at his fine jape, she hopes, and maybe smile for true again. Young Eddard climbs up to sit next to her and the nurse hands her daughter to hold and she begins to sing to them when suddenly the Greatjon comes in with a dark-haired man dressed all in black from his fur-lined cloak to his leathers and heavy quilted breeches down to his high boots. It takes her a moment to recognize her half-brother Jon Snow: Sansa has not seem him since the day she left Winterfell for Kings Landing, the very same day he left with their uncle Benjen to join the Night’s Watch, and she is so happy: it is so sweet to see him again. He is grim and serious as befits the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch but she wonders if his look is because of her: she was never close to him like Arya was, never treated him as her real brother, and because by her selfish actions she took the only parent he once had. But he smiles at her now, showing lines of worry in his young face, and his words are kind.

“Sansa! Look at you: you’re still beautiful…more even.” He stares at her with a strange almost-longing and she realizes that he is looking at her hair. “ _Kissed by fire_ they would call you north of the Wall. I’d forgotten…” he trails off and his expression is pained. He shakes his head and comes around and stands next to the bed. “I’m off to Winterfell to see Robb. The king has called a council of his lords and I’m to attend as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch; the Smalljon attends in your lord’s stead and will ride with us. Arya is to be wed while we are there,” he smiles to speak of her, his favourite sister though she knows that is her own doing: he has reason to love Arya. “You know she weds Harrion Karstark; and Bran will be there from Greywater Watch,” he adds. Bran had been warded to her father’s friend, the crannogman Howland Reed, and he had become close to his two children. “I’m sorry you will not be able to attend, Sansa. We’ll all miss you,” he says now.

“I miss you all as well,” she tells him sadly, “I have not seen Winterfell since I came here to be wed.”

He looks sadly back at her and then half-smiles and leans forward as though to speak confidentially. “Too busy making Umbers, I see,” he jests mildly, referring to her children. “Motherhood suits you, Sansa: you were always a lady, now here you are the Lady of Last Hearth. I- I’m sorry for your accident…and your loss,” he adds somberly and glances to her husband as well.

“Thank you, Jon,” she replies softly, “…or shall I call you Lord Commander?” she teases him now and he smiles genuinely. “I- I’m very proud of you, Jon,” she tells him sincerely, “and pleased for you that you have done so well. Father,” she begins and her voice catches, “Father would be proud of you too,” she finishes in a whispery voice.

He stares at her grimly again and she feels chastened. _He feels I have no right to speak of Father,_ she tells herself.

“My Lord,” he says now as he turns to the Greatjon and speaks respectfully but with authority, “might I have a word alone with your lady wife? I have a family matter to discuss.”

Sansa knows that her husband can insist loudly that he is family now as well, in fact she almost expects it, but something in Jon’s voice gives him pause and he reaches his arms out for his daughter and takes her from Sansa. “Come young Eddard,” he calls him and the boy slides down off the bed. “Your mother needs talk with her lord brother; let’s take Serena back to her nurse and we’ll work with your sword.” Sansa watches them go and wonders when they can be as a family again.

“Serena?” Jon repeats when the Greatjon leaves them. He looks at her bedside and she nods so that he sits to face her now. “Pretty name: is it a Stark name or an Umber name?”

“Both,” Sansa replies. “That is why Lord Umber chose it. Serena Stark was daughter to Rickon and granddaughter to Cregan: she was wed to a Jon Umber…and then to another Stark.”

Jon nods and smiles. “She was sister to Sansa; Serena’s second marriage was to Edric Stark, and they had twin sons. You see: I do remember something of my lessons from Maester Luwin, and Old Nan’s stories. There were other twins born to Starks as well, so mayhaps you will still be blessed.” His smile falters and he looks down. “Sansa, there is something you needs know about Father…about your father.”

Sansa looks at him curiously. _Does he think I do not look upon him as my brother?_  “He was your father too, Jon-“

“No,” he says quietly and looks up at her carefully now, “no, he wasn’t.”

When Sansa only stares, because she is not certain that she heard correctly, he presses ahead. “You father was not my father, Sansa; and I was never his bastard. I- I am Lyanna’s son, and so he was my uncle, and I am your cousin not your half-brother.” His mouth purses bitterly now. “I’m Rhaegar Targaryen’s bastard.”

“He kidnapped her-“ she begins. _And he raped her._ But she could not bring herself to say it: to say that he was a child of rape by a prince. Her own mouth tightened bitterly now: she knew all about a prince’s so-called honor. “Jon, how do you know this? Did Father tell-“

“Lord Howland Reed told me and Robb when he came to bury Fa- Lord Eddard’s bones in the crypt at Winterfell. He said that Lyanna may have run off with the prince; said that she loved romantic stories and that she did not love her betrothed, Robert. I wonder if it is any better that my mother ran off and dishonored herself than if she were forced…but mayhaps, at least they loved each other. Would that be so bad, Sansa? Would it not be better somehow?”

Sansa’s eyes are beginning to brim with tears. “Oh, Jon…” _If you only knew_ , she thought. “Girls with romantic longings from songs and stories can find themselves in a great deal of trouble,” she lamented. Songs had taken her to Kings Landing where she betrayed her father and to a tower room where she betrayed her husband. Her sister Arya may have their aunt Lyanna’s looks and spirit but Sansa feels she has a strong streak of her doomed romantic ideas; only Lyanna’s had cost her own life and Sansa’s has cost her child’s.

He reaches for her hand now and gives it a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry for all you’ve suffered, Sansa. I hope- I hope your life is better now.” But his brow furrowed and his smile was forced. “Your lord husband is a good man,” he continues, “He will not leave you until you are well again. And he is a great warrior who will protect you. There’s no other man who can lay claim to killing the Mountain; though I had never seen Gregor Clegane, only the other one who came to Winterfell.”

“Sandor Clegane,” she says softly, and she looks off above his head.

He squeezes her hand again. “I’m sorry Sansa, I didn’t meant to bring back bad memories for you. I know he was…he was in the Kingsguard,” he finishes, not wanting to mention Joffrey to her, she realizes. “I don’t understand why Renly did not take his life with all the others,” he questions aloud.

“He sent him into exile with Tommen and Myrcella. He said that _his_ reign would not be founded on dead children, as Robert’s had been on the murder of the Targaryen babes; and so he spared them and gave them Sandor Clegane as their shield and proclaimed that no man would gain his favor by harming any of them,” she recalls to him.

“Renly was their uncle once…in name,” Jon observes.

“As my father was a father to you. Is that why he lied Jon: to protect you from King Robert? He hated the Targaryens.” She looks at him in a completely different light now. “You are a Targaryen, Jon: a dragon, if not the last dragon.”

“But still a bastard. And there is another, legitimate heir: a girl called Daenerys, styled _Stormborn._ They say she married a Dothraki horselord, and conquered Meereen and freed their slaves. She has dragons…or so claim sailors from Slaver’s Bay to the maester at Eastwatch.”

“Dragons,” Sansa breathes incredulously. “Gods be good.” But somehow she does not believe it possible.

“I know,” Jon nods and seems to be thinking absently.

“Will…will you seek her out, Jon: this girl who is your family?”

“The Night’s Watch is my family,” he says firmly, “and the Starks, I hope: you are the only family I have ever known…thanks to your father; and only the family knows the truth. Robb is not convinced that I would be safe with a Baratheon on the throne.”

Sansa smiles fondly at him. “You will always be family to me, Jon. I – I wish I had been more of a sister to you…as Arya was. Please tell her that I love her dearly, and wish her every possible happiness,” she chokes up to say all the things she has never said. “Will you stay with us on your return journey, Jon, and tell me everything?”

“Aye, of course,” he replies, “I do not leave until morning, Sansa. Your lord is putting up me and my men for the night. I have a few of my brothers with me as guards and a young man who leaves us for the Citadel to become a maester: you would like him Sansa, Sam is well-read and loves songs as you do. That reminds me, if you would write messages to your family, I will carry them for you.”

“Would you? I have gifts as well…for Arya: bedgowns that I have been embroidering for her, though mayhaps a seamstress will needs fit them to her,” she muses aloud.

“I’m told she’s grown taller,” he tells her, “though not as tall as you.”

“She was only a girl,” Sansa says mournfully, thinking of a time when they were all together.

Jon looks at her steadily and replies: “So where you, Sansa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I must credit SecondStarOnTheLeft and her story "Further North" for recognizing that Sansa is as much like her Aunt Lyanna as Arya, only different.


	16. Chapter 16

Once Jon has left her chamber, Sansa is left with her thoughts.

She considers Jon’s discovery of his true parentage, and how he wants to believe that, though his mother dishonored herself, his parents may have at least loved each other. It sounds like something from a song and therefore something she would once have thought romantic. But her beloved songs and romantic notions have never made her happy, as she once believed they would.

_…one day I’ll have a song from you…_

Sansa wonders what became of Sandor Clegane. He had always ridiculed her love of songs and her ideas about true knights; and he had been right. He had hated liars as well, and told her she was a bad one. _What would he think to hear me lie now? He said a dog can smell a lie; so I would doubtless stink of deceit to him._

He had come to her the night the city had fallen. He had deserted the battle and stolen into her chamber to wait for her, certain the she would come. How he knew she would flee the queen’s false protection in Maegor’s she does like to think: he may have been ordered by Joffrey or Cersei to find her and kill her when they knew their cause was lost. Cersei had told her earlier that Ser Ilyn was there for _them_ : that she did not intend that Renly would take them alive, nor for the Stark forces to rejoice at their defeat. If Renly prevailed, Sansa would die; and so she had gone to her room to lock herself in and pray to be rescued. But the Hound had been there, drunk and defeated but he wanted a _song_ , he wanted her to sing Florian and Jonquil for him and he even held a knife to her throat and she had been so frightened and so certain that he was going to kill her that she had sung the Mother’s Hymn instead and he had relented somehow. He had taken the dagger from her throat and ripped off his Kingsguard cloak and handed her his dagger by the hilt.

“Take it, little bird; and kill any man who tries to touch you. Right here,” he thumped his armor over his chest. “You know where the heart is? I’ll be standing guard outside your door: don’t you open it for anyone unless I say so, or you hear Lord Renly. Do you understand me?”

Sansa had nodded meekly and curled up in the far corner of her chamber, wrapped in his cloak and holding the dagger so tightly that it hurt. Finally she heard soldiers approaching, and then the voice of the Hound addressing the Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras Tyrell.

“Ser Loras,” the Hound had rasped, “you once said you owed me your life. I claim your debt now for the life of the person I protect-“

“You cannot save your bastard boy-king, Clegane,” Ser Loras had pronounced haughtily.

“Fuck the king; it’s Lord Eddard Stark’s daughter I guard here. Lady Sansa has been a hostage of the Lannisters and not the devoted betrothed of the king they may have you believe. She has been beaten and tormented, and they meant to take her life when the city fell. Promise me that she will be safe with you and Renly and returned to Winterfell…and then you may do what you like with me. I’ll even bend the knee to your king before you have my head if you want.”

Ser Loras had honoured his request and tasked his own guards to protect Sansa when the other soldiers took the Hound away to a cell. After the battle for the Red Keep was over, she was taken before Lord Renly, now King Renly where she graciously bent the knee and asked him to send her home.

“In time, Lady Sansa; I cannot spare the guards to escort you now, and the city and the Crownlands are still very dangerous. I will send word to your family that you are safe and are living here as my honored guest. Soon you will have the company of my queen, the Lady Margaery of House Tyrell.”

Sansa had wanted to weep when she was told that she would have to stay in Kings Landing but she smiled instead, and thanked the new king for his hospitality and his protection. She became friendly with Queen Margaery and her ladies, and her shrewd and forthright grandmother, the Lady Olenna. The old woman had wanted Renly to betroth Sansa to her grandson, the heir to Highgarden, Willas Tyrell; but Renly had promised Lady Stark to return her daughter to her, and he insisted on keeping his word.

It was during her first days in King Renly’s court that Sansa had been called to bear witness against the Lannisters and their guards. She knows that until her dying day she will remember being led into the crowded throne room on the arm of one of Renly’s Rainbow Guard as a herald loudly and clearly announced her presence, preceded by a forceful thump of his staff on the marble floor.

“The Lady Sansa of House Stark…Princess of the North!”

The throne room had been lined with benches on both sides so that nobles could watch the proceedings. She remembers how they had all stood as she passed: the men bowed to her and the women curtsied. She had kept her head high and her eyes fixed ahead of her, though inside she was frightened to be there. She was there to denounce the Queen, King Joffrey and the Kingsguard, none of whom could meet her eyes save Joffrey who glared angrily until she began to speak of his abuses, and then he looked pleadingly at her; much as she imagined that she must have looked the many times he had her beaten and humiliated.  Of all the Lannister retainers held by the Rainbow Guards, only Sandor Clegane would look at her, and when she meet his eyes he nodded once firmly, reassuringly; and she felt braver then.

After she spoke against Joffrey, Cersei and Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn and Ser Boros, Sansa then bowed her head respectfully and lowered herself gracefully to her knees as the court watched in stunned surprise.

“Your Grace, I knelt here once before in this very room to beg mercy for the life of my father. I was denied, though I did not know it until Joffrey called for his head. Believing your grace to be a better king, and a better man; I would beg mercy for Sandor Clegane-“

The gathered nobles gasped in their collective breaths.

“- who never once harmed me and even attempted, though neither obviously nor forcefully, to stem the abuses I suffered at the hands of other members of the Kingsguard. He stood guard outside my chamber when the Red Keep fell to ensure that I would not be harmed, for Cersei Lannister had promised me that I would not live if House Lannister was defeated. He let it be known to Ser Loras Tyrell that I had been a hostage and not party to their treason. If not for Sandor Clegane, your grace, I would not be alive this day.”

Renly had looked down on her shrewdly and glanced to his queen before answering.

“Since Sandor Clegane never harmed you and even protected you; and since we know that he once saved the life of our own queen’s beloved brother, Ser Loras, from his own brother, Ser Gregor Clegane…we grant him mercy, and we thank the Lady Sansa, Princess of the North,  for her brave and honest words.”

He nodded then to a member of his Rainbow Guard who brought the Hound forward. Sansa noted that the guard was almost as tall as he was, and then she was dumbfounded to realize the guard was a woman.

“Sandor Clegane: you were a loyal retainer to House Lannister and a member of Joffrey’s Kingsguard, who have proved beyond doubt that they were no true knights; and yet you seemed to have conducted yourself better than any of them. Why is that?”

Sandor Clegane looked at him and his mouth twitched. “I was never a knight…your grace,” he rasped.

The crowds on the benches now tittered and laughed; but the Hound bent the knee to King Renly and Renly charged him with being the sworn sword of Myrcella and Tommen, now named Waters, when they went into exile in the Free Cities. Then he loudly proclaimed that anyone who sought to harm them would die a traitor’s death since he, their king, had declared that they should live. When Sandor Clegane rose he bowed to the new king and queen and then turned and bowed to Sansa. She looked him straight in the face, as he had always said she should, and she noticed then that his eyes did not seem to burn with the same rage. She thought that he meant to say something to her, but he never did, and she could only nod to him as he had to her when he was led away by the big, tall female guard.  She never saw him again.

When Sansa thinks now on the way he looked at her and spoke to her then, she thinks that he may have wanted her; but she does not think that should have been enough for him to have protected her time and again and then to have guarded her when the Lannisters were defeated. He could have deserted and escaped, as Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys had done; or he could have fought to the death as he was sworn to do and escaped justice. Instead he had guarded her life at the possible cost of his own, for surely he must have realized that he would be captured and imprisoned and sentenced to die. Even in the throne room, where her words could have sealed his fate, he had nodded to her and given her a measure of certainty and bravery she had not been sure that she possessed. She had come to realize that he must have truly cared for her, though whether it was as a woman or simply as another person tormented and made to live in fear as he once had, she is still not entirely certain.

She wonders now what would have happened to her if Renly had been defeated. Would the Hound still have come to her chamber, or would he have stayed by Joffrey’s side throughout the battle, and then stood by as she was wed to his king and continued to try to temper the king’s brutality in small ways? She likes to think that he would have come to her and offered to keep her safe, and to run away with him. She likes to think that she would have been brave enough to accept. But she had still feared him then: feared his rage and his scarred face and his brutal honesty. She suspects that she would have refused, and that he would have left without her. She would have been a fool if she had refused; but they would also likely have been hunted and killed if she had left with him, probably by his own brother.

She wonders also what would have happened if King Renly had instead wed her to his goodbrother in Highgarden, Willas Tyrell, and she had become the Lady of the Reach. Would she have been happy then? Or would she have yearned for the North while acting dutifully in his hall and in his bed?

She thinks she should never have dreamed of love or romance. She may have been happy then; or at least content. She likes to think she could have been happy somehow and that this is not her fate: to constantly chose the wrong man and make the wrong decision. Sansa knows that she is high-born, and that she has been given more in life than most people, yet with all she had been given, she always seemed to want more: something magical and splendid; and when she got it and discovered it was not what she had hoped, she would then dream desperately of what she had before.

_Why? Why can we never know the consequences of our actions beforehand? Do the gods choose our fates: so that whatever we do, we end up as they intend; or do they let us choose and then laugh at us as we ruin and make mockery of our own life? Perhaps the gods do not so much punish me as let me punish myself, and then laugh at me,_ she thinks as she shakes her head.

She thinks of Jon Snow again, who had been given less than she had but made a life for himself. She does not imagine it is an easy life but he has made the best of it and he clearly works hard at it. She can do the same.

_I am a Stark, and an Umber. I am a lady, or at least I still know how to be a lady._

Sansa rings for her maid and waits. Before she arrives, her husband returns to their chamber.

“My lord,” she smiles to greet him.

“Sansa,” he replies. “The maester will bring you quill and ink and parchment for the letters the Lord Commander would carry for your family. You rang for your maid: can I have her bring your meal for you?”

Her smile wavers slightly. “We used to take our meals in here together,” she cannot help reminding him.

“There are guests in the castle, Sansa,” he sounds weary to her, “I have my duties to them,” he replies.

She takes a deep breath. “As have I, my lord,” she tells him firmly. “My maid will draw me a bath, and I will dress for the hall. I am the lady of Last Hearth,” she reminds him, “and I have my duties as well.”


	17. Chapter 17

“Are you quite certain about this, Sansa?”

Sansa is finishing her bath as her maid assists her. It feels good to be immersed in the warm water: it soothes her stiff limbs and calms her nerves at the prospect of facing the hall once again after nearly a moon’s turn. Her husband speaks to her from behind the screen that shields her bath from the open room.

 “I am, my lord,” she replies. “I will retire if I find myself fatigued; surely the men of the Nights Watch will not be offended with my brother Jon as their Lord Commander. Oh…oh, goodness,” she murmurs as she tries to rise with the help of her maid.

“Have a care, milady, we don’t needs you falling again,” the girl cautions her.

“Blast,” she hears the Greatjon swear, and after a short moment, he stretches his neck to look around the screen. She is surprised but pleased as he lumbers awkwardly towards the side of the tub.

“Thank you, my lord,” she says softly, and holds out her arm. She casts her eyes down modestly but she hopes that he is looking at her. “If you could help to steady me as I stand…” she requests timidly.

He furrows his greying brow in concern. “Easy now,” he mutters as he moves to take hold of her. “Oh blast it,” he curses impatiently again and simply reaches into the water and lifts her as easily as a child and sets her on her feet by the hearth. Her maid hurries to wrap her in a towel but she sees that he has looked at her naked body and she knows she felt good to be in his arms again.

“I am grateful for your assistance, my lord; I- I fear you will needs change into fresh garb.”

He has soaked his furs almost to the shoulder on one side and water runs and drips down his side. He looks down at his arm and snorts angrily at his carelessness before moving away.

“The brown velvet for the hall…I think,” she tells her maid who nods and leads her to her dressing table.

Though Sansa had once worn this same gown for Lord Jon, tonight she wants to wear Umber colors; she also wants to wear a high neckline and to braid her hair. She thinks that if she hides her body and her hair in this small way, her husband may remember that he likes to look at them. She feels foolish and girlish for trying to capture his attention but she knows that she will nevertheless look her best for the hall.

“Young Eddard wishes to eat supper in the hall tonight,” the Greatjon tells her as he flings furs to the floor and rummages through a chest in a corner now. “He wants to see more men of the Night’s Watch like your lord brother.”

“Are there so many travelling with Jon?” she asks him.

“No,” he replies shortly, “though one is fat enough for two men. Gods help us if that is what stands between us and the wildlings.”

“That must be the one who will travel to the Citadel to be a maester; Jon called him Sam.”

“Samwell Tarly: son of Randall Tarly,” he comments, “the only man who ever defeated Robert Baratheon,” he speaks of the man respectfully. “I’ll wager he made the boy take the black: he’s no warrior, that one; and so of little use to the Watch either. Probably why they’re sending him off to forge a chain.”

“Jon said he is quite learned,” she nods to her maid when she is satisfied, and she is pleased to see the bruising on her face is nearly gone. The girl helps her rise and when she turns, the Greatjon is buckling a heavy leather belt around a quilted brown wool tunic, and she remembers that he wore it the day she first arrived at Last Hearth. She catches her breath.

“You…you look very fine, my lord,” she tells him softly, though she feels sad to remember how she did not want him then.

“Hm? Nonsense finery for guests,” he dismisses it casually. “Still, I’m far from being a Southron peacock, at least.” He looks up and looks her over now, from head to heels, and nods approvingly. “Now that is looking fine. You do my house proud, Sansa, but…are you certain that you will not reconsider? You walk very stiffly and your arm…” he waves towards her arm which is now in a sling until she recovers her strength.

Sansa spoke humbly. “If it please you, my lord: I have been so long confined to this chamber, and I have not seen Jon since the day I left Winterfell…with my father,” she implores him softly. “Of course, I shall obey if you command-“

“I’ll not command you stay here, Sansa; not if it is important to you. Come then, let’s fetch young Eddard.” He holds out his arm for her to lean on as she walks with a slow limp into the hallway where their son runs toward them and away from his nurse.

“Father, Berena made me dress in a tunic,” he complains.

“That’s alright, Eddard, your mother made me dress in one too!” The Greatjon laughs his booming laugh and Sansa smiles to hear it. “Run ahead now, boy, and find your brother. I needs carry your mother down the stairs.” Before she can protest, he scolds her: “If I let you walk down, Sansa, we’ll get there in time to break our fast instead of our supper.”

If he notices that Sansa lays her head on his shoulder as he carries her, he does not let on. Once he sets her down to escort her into the hall, those assembled erupt with cheers.

“My lady!” “Lady Umber!” and “Last Hearth!” they cry, as though she has won a battle. They roar and pound the tabletops in a manner that had startled her when she first came to the castle but she smiles in gratitude to hear and see it now.

 _If I am ever a queen, I’ll make them love me,_ she had once promised herself.  She is not a queen, but if ever in her life she has felt like one it is at this moment: when she is welcomed back to the hall by the people of Last Hearth. Even Crowfoot and Whoresbane are on their feet, pounding their tankards of ale so hard that the empty plates before them jump and rattle. Lord Jon inclines his head to her and her brother Jon smiles warmly and the three black brothers who accompany him look at her with round eyes of amazement. They have all been seated with the Umbers at the largest table and Jon introduces them as she approaches. The shy, fat young man is Sam; the others are named Edd and Dareon. Edd seems as morose as Dareon is at ease.

“I’m very pleased to meet one of Jon’s family, Lady Umber,” Sam tells her hesitatingly once they have begun eating. “He’s- he’s been like a brother to me. I- I can’t wait to see Winterfell: he’s told me all about it. Though Last Hearth is impressive as well, m-my lord,” he assures the Greatjon hastily.

“I am pleased that Jon has such a good friend in you, Samwell Tarly: he speaks very highly of your learning. He has said that you like songs as well,” she smiles encouragingly at him. _He is so very shy,_ she thinks but he brightens when she mentions music.

“My m-mother liked to sing, my lady; and Jon says you sing very well,” he ventures.

“I was an apprentice singer when I chose to join the Night’s Watch,” the man named Dareon interrupts them as he leans towards her from across the table and gazes at her boldly. “It would please me to sing for such a lovely lady who appreciates music…if your lord approves, of course,” he smiles an ingratiating smile at her husband now.

“If it’s that or listening to him fart from all the meat he’s eaten and the ale he’s drunk: let him sing, Greatjon,” his uncle Mors slurs rudely.

“My singing’s no better than farting,” the man Edd comments now, “so I’ll sit far from the Lord Commander’s sister and try to do neither,” he says to no one in particular.

“This is why we call him Dolorous Edd,” Jon murmurs on her near side, and she suppresses a giggle. “Dareon can sing  though. I was hoping his songs would encourage some men to join the Watch. We’re dangerously undermanned, my lord,” he addresses the Greatjon now.

“I send you all my prisoners, and as much in supplies as I can spare, Lord Commander,” he assures him.

“And we are grateful to Last Hearth, my lord, more than we can ever repay you. I- I regret you will not come to Winterfell, though of course I understand your reasons, and I am personally very grateful for your care of my sister. I hope, my lord…that is…I pray that we may speak when I stop on my return journey, with your leave of course. I would like to tell Sansa of everyone at Winterfell.”

“You are always welcome at Last Hearth, my lord; and your men as well,” he nods for emphasis.

“M-my lady?” the Tarly boy addresses her timidly. “Would you…forgive me if I impose…but might you…might you sing for us….if Lord Umber permits? It has been some time since I have heard a lady sing.”

When her husband nods to her, Sansa lets Jon help her to stand while the hall quiets and some of the servants come out of the kitchens to listen. Young Eddard leaves his brother’s side and come to sit in his father’s lap.

In a sweet clear voice Sansa begins to sing _Autumn of My Day._ Though she is young, she is only eight-and ten; she feels older sometimes, she feels ancient like a crone but without the wisdom. All the sorrow of her loss and her heavy heart from her betrayal of her husband seem to come out in her song, and when she finishes there is a ringing silence before the applause fills the hall.

“That was sad, Mother,” young Eddard looks at her worriedly. “Are you sad?”

“It is a sad song, sweet boy: sometimes life is sad,” she tells him but she smiles gently.

Without waiting to be invited, Dareon stands and begins to sing _The Winter Maid._ He sings while looking at Sansa and occasionally glancing around the hall to see that he is being admired. His voice is excellent, deep and resonating as though he is pouring all of his heart into his song, but it is clear to Sansa, and she imagines to most but the greenest of maids, that the man think very highly of himself and his skill, and she is embarrassed by his attention. When he begins again after accepting the applause of the hall, he sings _Let Me Drink Your Beauty,_ and she can see her husband begin to glower. She reaches to hold his hand and smile at him and, seeing her show of devotion to her husband, the singer from the Night’s Watch then sings _My Lady Wife_.

“Do you sing such love songs to your brothers at the Wall?” the Whoresbane finally shouts. “Give us a good Northern song,” he insists and the people in the hall echo his request.

“How about _Wolves in the Hills_?” Jon suggests and his sworn brother obeys. Jon then leans to speak with her husband and her son, and leaves her to sit with Samwell Tarly.

“Thank you for your song, my lady. Jon did not do you justice, for your singing or…or your beauty, my lady, if…if you don’t mind my saying-“

“You are very sweet and kind to say so….may I call you Sam? It would please me if you would call me Sansa.”

Yes, of course…S-Sansa,” he says her name with a shy pride. “I like that song; I think my mother must have sung it. Those songs that I remember are my favourites.  I- I always loved songs and stories….though I don’t think I quite believe in their happy endings anymore…” he sounds suddenly serious and she looks at him closely. He seems to be remembering something difficult or unhappy, and she feels a comfortable kinship with him because of it.

“A…a man once told me that life was not a song, and that I would learn that one day…to my sorrow,” she tells him now. She has never told anyone that. Lord Baelish had unnerved her with his stares and his touches and so she did not like to think of him, nor to think that he should have been right.

“I- I would be very unhappy to think you had suffered any sorrow, my lady… _Sansa_ ,” he corrects himself clumsily. Then he looks to where Jon is still with young Eddard and her husband and the man Edd who is play-fighting with her son and making them all laugh. “Jon was happy to see you have a good husband and a family of your own,” he confides to her. “He said you always wanted to be the lady of a castle, and to be loved. Everyone loves you here. You’re lucky to have that…to have what you always wanted,” he tells her now and though he is sincere, there is a wistfulness to his voice that is unmistakable and she realizes that her husband was right: Sam had likely been made to take the black.

She reaches now to gently put her hand over his and he looks at her with surprise.

“Oh, Sam: I told you how pleased I was that you were Jon’s friend; but you have just been a great friend to me,” she tells him feelingly. Then she leans forward to kiss his cheek and though he stutters wordlessly and turns an alarming shade of red, he also smiles happily.

Rising from her chair now, the men all turn to her. “Forgive me, my lords, I must retire. Jon, would you be so kind as to escort me to my chamber? My lord must see to our guests.”

Jon helps her climb the stairs and walks with her towards her room now.

“Jon, why is Arya’s wedding at Winterfell and not at Karhold? Is it to hurry the wedding before the Freys can object?”

“They can object all they want, Sansa; but Arya is marrying Harrion Karstark. She’ll never agree to leave the North again, I think; and the presence of so many lords to witness the marriage makes the trip to Karhold unnecessary.”

“But will she not needs travel there anyway to live, or does Harrion stay to serve Robb?”

He is quiet a moment, and Sansa senses that he wishes to tell her something but does not. “Things are…difficult right now, Sansa: that is why I needs attend this gathering-“

“Jon?” she clutches his arm in concern. “Is it wildlings? Is Last Hearth in danger?”

She thinks he looks stricken but then he smiles faintly. “Your husband will protect you, Sansa; you and your children. You just get well.” They walk again in silence. Fighting and killing are men’s business and she knows he will not tell her more.

“Jon…I never answered your question earlier-“

“What question is that?” he asks now.

“About your parents, Jon, about Lyanna and Rhaegar, and…it is absolutely better to be born of love,” she tells him sincerely. “Despite everything…I do believe that, Jon.”

“I…thank you, Sansa. I needed to hear that…I guess.”

 _I needed to say it_ , she thinks now. She still believes in love, even if it is not the love from the songs; and she wants to give love as much as she wants to be loved.

_I am not Cersei, I will not let love poison me…or any one I care for. Not ever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dareon is the singer who abandons Sam in Braavos and is killed by Arya; she brings his boots back to the House of Black and White; obviously in this fic, he is still alive and singing. I could not resist adding Dolorous Edd. I always thought Sansa and Sam would find a kinship, and he often helps people in ways he does not always realize.  
> Credit to wikioficeandfire for all the song titles and descriptions.


	18. Chapter 18

“Bother,” Sansa utters softly under her breath and holds her sewing tighter in her grasp. Since her fall, she finds that her arm and hand are still weak and she has difficulty with needlework. The maester has said it was to be expected and that she would heal in time but she find fumbling at a task that she mastered as a young girl to be frustrating. She sets her work aside and looks about the chamber. She is bored of sitting in her room but her husband has even more duties to see to now that the Smalljon has left with Jon and his men of the Night’s Watch.

They had left the morning after they had arrived, as soon as the sun rose; and Sansa had insisted on seeing Jon off. She still thought of him as her brother, and likely always would, and she was grateful that he and Samwell Tarly had helped her to see and to resolve that she would continue to believe in love, even if was not the love she knew from songs.

“Give my love to everyone at Winterfell, Jon; please tell them why I could not be there,” she had asked.

“I will, Sansa. You’ll be strong again soon: I know you will.” He had kissed her forehead, like she was still a girl; and she had ruffled Ghost’s fur and watched him mount his horse.

“My lady,” comes a voice behind her.

Sansa turns now. “Lord Jon.” She feels at a loss for words now that they are face to face for the first time since she lost her child; possibly _their_ child. “I- I wish you safe journey,” she begins haltingly but she stops when shakes his head mournfully.

“My lady, we have not spoken since…since your terrible fall. Please know how very much I grieve for your loss,” he tells her and his eyes are pained.

She looks deeply into his eyes and replies: “I _do_ know…Lord Jon; and I- I am so sorry-“

“Please,” he stops her. “ _I_ am sorry.” He looks around carefully now and sees that no one in the busy, noisy yard is listening to them. “You must have fallen just after you left me,” he murmurs, “and it tears at me inside that you were hurt…that you were lying there hurt and we never knew… _I_ never knew…”

“You must not blame yourself…and we must never speak of this again,” she tells him sadly. She looks past him now as she sees that her husband is coming out into the yard with a tied leather roll of correspondence for Winterfell. He sees them standing together and he walks towards them.

“My lord, I am pleased to have the chance to speak to you together, as there is something that I have needed to say to you both,” she wrings her hands together uncertainly. “Berena…Berena told me of how you helped me, when I had the fever,” she tells them and they look at her and at each other and cast their eyes down. “She said that I may have died without your help. Please allow me to say how grateful I am to you both, for helping me to live,” she tells them now.

“We could not have done differently, my lady: you are very much loved and needed at Last Hearth. Is that not so, Father?”

“It is,” the Greatjon replies unhesitatingly, though he shifts uncomfortably. “Forgive me; I needs give these scrolls to the Lord Commander for the King. I have included your own letters, Sansa.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she says as he walks to Jon. She turns back to the Smalljon who has not moved away.

“He cares for you very much, you know, my lady. He was quite stricken to see you hurt, and to think he might lose you…I would have hated him for that once…but instead I went to the godswood and prayed that they to spare you for his sake; and swore that I would never hurt him again.”

Sansa nods silently, knowingly: she has made the same pledge to herself. “I am grateful for your prayers, Lord Jon,” is all she says now.

“Take care of yourself, my lady; and him,” he smiles faintly and then bows before walking to his mount.

Two nights have passed since they have left; and Sansa had hoped that her husband would return to their chamber. But he has stayed in the smaller room further down the hallway where she slept for over a year after her wedding night; and they meet to eat their meals in the hall. He asks each day how she is fairing and she assures him that she is well; but still he has not returned. Despondent now, she tucks her sewing back into the many-tiered basket full of fine needles and threads and thimbles and scissors that had been another of her husband’s gifts, and sets out to walk the hallways of the castle. As she passes silently in her fur slippers near the solar, she overhears the uncles speaking:

“Did you hear him shouting in the yard this morning? I thought he’d wake Umbers in the crypts.”

“That ginger stable boy again…always hanging about at training time; does he think the lord will spar with him then?”

“So the lad would rather fight than shovel shit: no reason to take his head off with curses,” Hother grumbles now. “You know what they’re saying, don’t you: that he’s not had a tumble since she had hers.”

She hears Mors slam down his tankard now. “Gods be fucked! The wench was all bruised and broken, Smalljon said; and she lost the lord’s get besides.”

“Well she’s standing now,” Whoresbane argues, “and all she needs do is stick her legs in the air. She could’a done that _with_ splints! He ought ride to the village to get himself fucked; the gods will see to themselves.”

“If that’d be all he needed, he’d take it in the kitchens or laundry,” Crowfoot observes shrewdly, “but he don’t”.

“Might be he doesn’t want your leavings,” Whoresbane taunts him.

‘True that,” Mors boasts laughingly, “what the lord wants is his pretty red wolf, so leave him to her….and go see if you can’t cross your sword with the ginger stable boy’s,” he jests to his brother and laughs crudely again.

Sansa backs away quietly and hurries in the other direction. Her ears are burning and her cheeks feel hot: she has already come to realize how frankly the servants talk, and there are things about the uncles that she would much sooner not know.

She climbs the stairs to the next level of the living quarters and notes that the handholds have been chiseled deeper into the stone walls. Berena had told her how her husband had ordered the builders to see to it that the stairs in the castle were made safer; and how the stairs at the base of the north tower are now called _Lady Sansa’s steps_ by some servants, though never where the lord could hear them.

She walks to the length of the hallway and this time she overhears the maester with her husband.

“I see Smalljon has been doing well with the castle accounts?” the Greatjon asks authoritatively. As she approaches, she sees he is sitting at the maester’s desk and studying a large ledger.

“Very well, my lord, and so House Umber was able to offer a generous gift to the Lady Arya and Lord Harrion for their wedding,” the man replies.

Her husband grunts his approval and scratches his beard. “Which other lords of note attend; and which do not, besides myself?”

“Lord Manderly attends with a granddaughter yet unwed; he had offers from the Freys but-“

“Say no more, they asked about my youngest daughter which is why she chose to serve her sister. Well, mayhaps Smalljon will take to the merman’s mermaid. ”

“Lady Dustin has sent her regrets-“

“Old Barbrey? She’d not enjoy seeing anyone marry a Stark: it was all she wanted once, her father too.”

“And I believe Lord Theon attends from Pyke, in his sister’s stead,” the maester finishes.

“ _Just-missed Greyjoy_ ,” he jeers, ‘Envoy of his sister, Queen Asha of the Iron Islands; I’ll be sorry to have missed that sight,” he laughs but his voice is bitter. He looks up from the ledger now. “Sansa? Are you well? Do you need the maester?”

She smiles warmly for him now. “I am perfectly well, my lord.” _And I wish you would believe it,_ she thinks sadly. “I was taking a turn around the castle when I thought I would inquire of the maester if there was aught I could do to speed my recovery; my needlework progresses very badly…any worse and it will be as my sister Arya’s best.”

“Now, Sansa,” her husband chides her, “the poor child was a servant at Harrenhal before they found her…and doubtless she was not doing any fine embroidery there.”

“Forgive me, my lord, I did not mean to deride her; only to think of her as she once was now that she is to be wed. I quite admire her for her tenacity; and am pleased for her sake that she will not needs return now to the Riverlands.”

“Hm, it’s said she had the look of your Aunt Lyanna, though she was a corpse at six-and-ten, instead of a bride: may the gods give her rest,” he says somberly.

Sansa thinks of Jon now. “Did…did you know her well, my lord?”

Her husband looks to the maester who excuses himself on some suddenly remembered business and leaves them to speak privately. He leans forward in the chair in which he is seated and looks at her curiously.

“I knew them all well, Sansa: Lyanna, Brandon, your father…Benjen was a boy to us, but I knew him too. Why do you ask this now?”

She bites her lip and turns to look that the maester is truly gone. “Something Jon needed tell me when he was here, my lord. It…it seems my father was not his father, but rather…he is Lyanna’s boy….by-“

The Greatjon looks taken aback, but then he nods slowly. “Rhaegar Targaryen,” he murmurs. “Gods be good: we should have known.”

“But my father never wanted anyone to know. Surely my lord, you know how King Robert hated the Targaryens?”

“So much he smiled at the bloody corpses of Targaryen children the Lannisters presented to him. Curse him and the Others take me, but I never did anything so well in this life as to kill the Mountain!”

Sansa remembers how much Sandor Clegane hated his own brother, and how he told her why; and she finds it curiously fateful that she should have married the very man who killed him.

“Robb still feels that Jon would not be safe if anyone but family should know this. Lord Renly’s claim to the throne comes from his Targaryen blood, as did Robert’s claim before him.”

He ponders this a moment. “I would not think Renly the vengeful, plotting type, especially without that spider, Varys, by his side; still, I do not disobey my King, nor take lightly the confidences of my lady wife,” he takes her hand now and smiles reassuringly.

Sansa smiles back at him. “Would you make a confidence _to_ your lady wife, my lord?” She asks and he nods at her. “Would you tell me why Theon is styled _just-missed Greyjoy_? Surely he did not _intend_ to miss battles.”

Her husband scoffs with a sneer. “We were quite sure he did,” he insists firmly. “Oh, he did not lack for bravery in battle; I’ll not grudge him that; but he took his time getting his father’s ships to Lannisport when we attacked the Westerlands and your brother’s bannermen believe he wanted the Northerners to be very near their end so that he could arrive just in time to stave off defeat and make himself a hero. Well, we took the West without him or his ships when Glover and I burned old Tywin’s fleet at anchor. The Direwolf already flew from Casterly Rock when he showed his smug face,” he laughs richly now. “Not a drop of glory nor spoils left for him; and when that wrinkled squid Balon up and died, he turned his ships around so fast to claim his crown that we were left with none to send to Kings Landing for you. But they’d crowned his sister by the time he got there: a woman but a true squid as they saw it. They didn’t know him and they didn’t trust him; and now neither did we.”

“Prince Doran of Dorne sent a ship from Sunspear solely for me when he heard of it, to sail me to White Harbor,” she tells him now. “He said he intended it as tribute to my father’s honor and to Robb’s victory over the Lannisters.”

“A fitting tribute then, I’d say; and better than a shipload of Ironborn led by _just-missed Greyjoy_ ,” he jests.

“Poor Theon,” she says aloud, “it seems he was left with little-“

“-but more than he deserved,” her husband remarks contemptuously. “He wanted too much, and so he lost it all.”

“You dislike him greatly, my lord.”

“I hate his wretched guts; and so should you,” he says forcefully, and then relents. “He was loyal enough to your brother, but he was always more loyal to himself. If it had served him, Sansa; he would have betrayed us all, and if he had and we had been defeated then you may have died as your father did, but more likely the Lannisters would have kept you to claim Winterfell through you. They would have needed slay your younger brothers to do that, and murdering inconvenient children served Tywin Lannister very well once; doubtless he would not have hesitated to do it again.”

Sansa feels cold all over; she knows that he is right. _They would have wanted me for my claim._ “Would then that I could have had the skills and temperaments of Prince Oberyn’s natural daughters, my lord. Prince Doran sent them for company on my journey North.”

Her husband’s brow shoots up in astonishment now. “Gods be good, Sansa! You have never said that you had met the Red Viper’s Sand Snakes… You must tell me tales someday,” he laughs hugely.

Sansa swallows and hesitantly reaches to put her hand on his massive shoulder. “It would please me to tell you tales some _night_ , my lord,” she tells him tremulously but with hope.

He looks back at her with what she believes is a gentle yearning, and then pats her hand on his shoulder.

“Speak to Berena, Sansa…she will know if it is time yet.” He turns awkwardly back to the ledger now.

“As you say…my lord.”

Sansa drops a quick curtsey, and leaves the room.


	19. Chapter 19

“Mother, please don’t sing sad songs anymore; sing Northern songs,” young Eddard tells her when she visits the nursery.

“Gods be good, Berena: he listens to the uncles,” Sansa whispers to the old woman in dismayed realization as she takes her little girl in her arms.

“M-ma,” her daughter says, almost to herself.

“Yes, my little bird, I’m your Ma; will you say ma-ma?”

“ _Buh-thrrrrpt_ ,” her daughter responds with her little pink tongue between her lips.

Eddard laughs loudly like his father. “That’s funny, Serena!”

“ _Hee-ee,”_ she smiles happily, and waves her little arms.

“Yes, fly away,” Sansa whispers to her.

“And where will she fly to, milady?” Berena asks casually though she watches Sansa sharply, she thinks.

“Oh, anywhere, Berena: to the mountains of my father’s grandmother, mayhaps?” _Anywhere they won’t hurt her_ , she thinks to herself _._

“Serena’s a lord’s daughter, milady,” she scoffs mildly, “what would she make of a log and wattle cottage and a huntsman to wed?”

Sansa looks at the nurse now as shrewdly as she had looked at her. “And what did _you_ make of it, Berena? You once said you were a mother and yet-“

“And yet you’ve not seen any children of mine,” she finished gently. “Nor will you, milady. The youngest three died one winter when a terrible cold took them afore we could get to the winter town of Deepwood Mott. My husband went hunting for to eat and never came back. Only my eldest girl survived, and she went to Torren’s Square when she wed. I’ve not seen her since, milady.”

“I am very sorry, Berena. Would you not wish to go to her? I would be very sad to see you leave but if she is your only family-“

“The Umbers are like to be my family now, milady, if you don’t mind me thinking so. I raised the lord’s older children from babes, and now I’m happy to see to yours.”

“I don’t mind at all that you think so, Berena; I’m pleased that you have found a home at Last Hearth, and that you should still think so after…”

“Milady?”

Sansa hesitates now. “A-after your first lady should have passed on…and…and I came to Last Hearth.”

The old woman sighs. “The one had naught to do with the other, milady; and it were past time the lord took another lady to wife. Most thought he would never wed again; I expect we had all looked to Lord Jon be the one to marry but he’s not shown much liking for the idea yet.”

“My lord thinks that he mourns his mother, and fears that he should also lose the lady he loves,” Sansa ventures.

The old woman seems to pause at that, and gives the barest hint of a shrug. “It may be so, milady; but many a high-born don’t marry for love…not for starters anyway. If he’s taking his time it’s likely he cannot decide who or what to love; his father would be better to choose for him and then let him come to love the maid in time.”

“Do you truly believe that, Berena?”

“It worked well enough for you and your lord, it seems, milady, if I’m not too impertinent.”

She glances at Sansa now and Sansa knows that she must look dumbfounded.

“I see I have overstepped my place. I beg your pardon, milady,” the old woman asks humbly.

“I- I-“ Sansa fumbles for words. “I- Of course, Berena,” she assures the woman, “but I had not thought…I had not thought of myself…that is, I never had the choice of who I would marry, nor ever thought to and so-“

“And so you wed where you were told by your lord brother; as did Lord Umber when told by his king: you did your duty, the both of you…and now you seem content together; and though you suffered a hardship only just lately, such things can bring a man and wife closer together, milady.”

Sansa had never thought of her husband being commanded to wed by his king. She had only thought of herself, of being used as a pawn or as having been granted as a reward to the Greatjon for his fealty and service to Robb. It had not occurred to her that he may not have felt that he had a choice; or that she would not have been his choice. Mayhaps he had not wanted to marry at all.

_He must have loved her very much to have not wished to marry again. He is not so very old as that._

Even his uncle Mors had said that he did not look to the serving women in the castles for…for comfort; and if he shows such honor toward her, she wonders how much more must he have shown toward his first lady wife.

“Tell me a story, Mother, please,” young Eddard asks her now.

“I will, my sweet; and then I’ll sing for you and Serena; but first I must ask a question of Berena.”

…….

The late midday sky is a somber dark grey and the godswood seems deathly still but for the cold wind that rustles the red leaves still clinging to the top of the weirwood. Sansa cannot face the heart tree. The ancient carved face seems to look at her accusingly: its once sad and sympathetic visage looks angry and vengeful to her now.

_I understand that you must punish me; but why must you punish him? It is not justice to punish the innocent._

“Sansa? Sansa?”

She turns to him now, full of guilt and sorrow and longing and a desperate wish to go back, to undo all she has done and to make it right again. _Horrible, deceitful, wretched girl._

“Sansa, did you not hear me? Why did you not answer when I called? Don’t you know that I worry about you?”

“Pardons, my lord,” she says with a soft and sad humility.

He stands before her now and takes a hold of her gently but firmly by her upper arms and look down on her worriedly.

“What is it, Sansa? Tell me now.”

“I…I spoke with Berena….”

He nods as though he understands now. “It’s alright, Sansa,” he soothes her, “I’ll wait if she says wait-“

“No,” she interrupts him though she hardly wishes to speak of it. “We needs not wait to…to lie together, my lord; though she has counselled moon tea for another three moons so that I do not get with child so soon after…”

“Very well then, we’ll do as she counsels,” he agrees easily. “I trust her in these matters, Sansa, and so can you. There will be time for more-“

She cannot stop the sob that rises in her throat to strangle her remaining words, and she begins to shake so that he steps closer in alarm.

“But there may not…m-my lord,” she huffs and sobs as she speaks. “There- there may not be any more buh-babes. I may be buh-buh- _barren,_ ” she throws out the terrible word from her mouth with force as though to fling it far from her, far from him, far from this place and this horrible, wretched, terrible mess she has brought on herself, and now on him.

But she is in his arms and he is holding her close and he is stroking her hair down her long braid, she realizes now. She does not understand why he does not push her away and demand reasons, answers, apologies and penitence. Why is he not angry and shouting as her husband does when he is wronged? She has wronged him in every way and now _he_ must pay.

“The fuh-fuh-fever,” she stammers against his fur-clad chest as she begins to explain before she feels him hold her tighter.

“I know, Sansa, I know,” he murmurs now. “Berena told me that night. It’s alright, Sansa: it will be alright. It’s only a chance, after all…it may all be well. Don’t cry anymore now, Sansa, please don’t cry anymore.”

“Buh-but you said…you said we would fuh-fill the North with Umbers,” she laments hoarsely.

He chuckles now despite her tears. “You take me far too seriously, Sansa; gods be true, you’re not a brood mare,” he chides her. He leans back and looks down on her with a tender amusement. “Besides, there are plenty of us already; and we make noise and take up space for twice as many; or three times as many if you count my uncles in their cups,” he jests. “Oh, there now, Sansa: you are far too hard on yourself and you take matters too seriously. You are very like your father, do you know that?”

Sansa is confused now; it was Arya who had the look of their father and the Starks.

“I have always been likened to my lady mother, my lord.”

“I wasn’t speaking of your look, Sansa, but your nature. You asked about your Aunt Lyanna: she was very much like Brandon, both wild and reckless…the wolf blood your father’s father called it; and your own father always said it was what did for them. Mayhaps it’s true but we’re a wild lot ourselves up here: life is harder and so we revel in our joys and our freedoms, and drink our fill of ale and curse our hurts and kill our enemies…the Others take pretty niceties, we’ve not time for them.”

She blinked up at him now, and wiped away her tears from her cold cheeks.

“They were wild and so your father and Benjen tried to be steady and serious…we thought them bloody grim at times,” he chuckles now but then he nods again and his face is stern. “But they were dutiful, you father especially, and then it all fell on him: the lordship and Warden of the North, Brandon’s betrothed, Robert’s war; he lost his father, his brother and his sister…” He turns slightly and keeps one big arm around her shoulders and begins to walk with her, their feet crunching on the hard snow. “I was born my father’s heir: that has its own demands but when you expect it, well, it doesn’t crush you as it does when it all comes down on you at once: it’s a steady snowfall instead of an avalanche that buries you alive.”

“Was…was my father buried alive…did he feel buried alive do you think?” she asks him sadly.

Her husband seems to think a moment. “He might have…if he’d had the chance to stop and think about it; but it all happened so fast, Sansa; and I don’t believe he was unhappy but for his losses; but he was dutiful to a fault, if you’ll pardon my saying so: he should have learned to say no to some people, like Robert and his damned Small Council, the Others take them, no good’s ever come of a Stark going South. You’re wolves: you belong here in the North.” He squeezes her shoulders tighter and smiles down at her.

She sniffles again. “Sometimes…sometimes I do not feel much like a Stark, or a wolf, or that I am of the North at all: I must seem very tame and dull to you, my lord.”

“Did you not have a wolf, Sansa? It seems to me you all did,” he asks her now.

She nods dully. “Lady,” she tells him and her voice comes out a longing whisper.

“Lady…that is fitting, I’d say. And was she always wild, or did she walk proud and graceful and stand still and alert? Was she not devoted to you?”

“She was, my lord; she did.”

“And did you think her tame or dull; or did you see how strong and fierce she could be beneath her grace?”

She looks up to him now and smiles her understanding.

“Have you never walked up on the walls at Winterfell or looked from a tower and seen endless new-fallen snow, Sansa? Does it not look clean and pure and still and soft, though you know it is strong enough to kill you if you do not respect its power? Look here,” he stops and turns her towards the heart tree, the tree she could not face when she came alone, and he stands behind her and speaks close to her ear.

“You see that pale white bark, Sansa: how delicate it is? See those slender branches: the wind bends them but they do not break. And those blood-red leaves,” he runs his hand down the length of her braid now, “they’ll fall and come back again. Now look how strong that tree is, Sansa, though its parts seem fragile. Do you see?’

Sansa nods timidly, and then lifts her head. “Yes…yes, I see.”

He leans closer to her now and she feels his fingertips caress her neck and jaw above the fur collar of her cloak. “You’re of the North, Sansa; and you’re the North to me, and you’re strong though you’re soft and gentle, hm?”

“Yes,” she says again, and she turns her head to look up at him so that she can look in his eyes and she reaches her hand to caress the side of his bearded face. “Yes.”


	20. Chapter 20

She reaches up to kiss him as soon as she turns around, and he mirrors her caress of his face by brushing the backs of his fingers down her cold pale cheek.

“You’re cold, Sansa,” he murmurs now. A cold wind is still blowing through the godswood.

“Mmm, warm me,” she breathes into his mouth and kisses him again. He draws her to him and holds her in his massive arms but then, to her dismay, he lets her go and pulls away from her.

“Sansa-“

Forgive me, my lord,” she says meekly.

He leans his forehead into hers now. “I’ve been training in the yard, and gone to the stables and the forge and to the armory today, Sansa: I must stink like a rat swimming in a castle out-drain. Let me have a bath first, hm? For your sake,” he insists.

She flutters her eyes in embarrassment; he has never spoken of their lying together in such practical terms as this. But she nods and smiles timidly as she peeps up at him through her eyelashes. “If it please you…my lord.”

He responds with slow smile of his own. “I was hoping to please _you,_ Sansa.”

Sansa feels her cheeks redden now but she smiles wider and ducks her head.

“Go on ahead; have a man build up the fire in the hearth, and…mayhaps, if you could…let your hair out of that braid…” he trails off as he gazes at her; and Sansa self-consciously pulls her braid around to the front of her cloak but nods obediently. When he says nothing else, she steps back from him and finally turns to walk back into the castle. She steps lightly and hums to herself as she makes her way to their chamber and asks a passing serving man to build up the fire.

“I’ve come from the godswood, and it was so very cold,” she tells him unnecessarily as he sets about his task. Once he leaves, she sits at her dressing table and unbraids her hair swiftly. As she is brushing it in slow languid strokes, she overhears voices in the hallway. She walks to the door and opens it far enough to see down towards her old chamber where serving men are carrying a large tub and more of them are carrying buckets of water and one follows with a folded pile of freshly laundered linens.

Closing the door now, Sansa acts quickly and without thinking: she tugs behind her to unlace her gown and pulls it down from her body with underskirts, smallclothes and stockings following. She dons her robe and peeks out the door of the chamber again and sees the men with buckets all leave and the others follow one by one; the last calls “yes, m’lord” before closing the heavy door behind him and disappearing towards the stairs. She opens the door wider and stretches her head out and sees the hall is deserted. Raising the hem of her robe, she pads quickly down the hallway to where her husband is bathing and lets herself in. Quiet is impossible with the squeak of the hinges, so she shuts her door firmly behind her and lowers the bar with a solid thud of wood and iron.

“What is it now?” he calls from behind the screen. “I told you I didn’t need assistance: gods be good, I can find my own blasted ass to wash it!”

“Pardons, my lord,” she says softly from behind the screen. “Shall I leave you, then?”

She hears a splash of water and then her husband’s surprised voice. “Sansa?”

She steps timidly to the side of the screen and looks around at him. He is sitting back with his arms alongside the great big tub full with soapy water and he looks at her with confused astonishment.

“You were kind enough to help me when I was at my bath, my lord…I thought…” she walks around the screen now towards the tub and stands before him. She smiles shyly as she reaches to untie her robe before taking a deep breath and pushing it from her shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. As she begins to step towards him, the Greatjon’s eyes go wider and he speaks plainly:

“Not yet, let me look at you.”

Sansa stands before him now and casts her eye down modestly but after a moment she looks up at him again to see that he is taking in her entire body with a look of such sweet yearning that she catches her breath.

“You’re a beautiful sight, Sansa,” he says tightly and swallows visibly; then he holds out a great big hand to her. “Come now, before you get cold.”

Sansa takes his hand and then the other to steady herself as she carefully raises one leg over the side of the bath. “Careful now,” he murmurs as she bring the other leg over and lowers herself into the warm water facing him with a knee on either side of his hips so that she is straddling his legs beneath her. She bites her lip and then smiles tentatively when he reaches out both hands to frame her face and leans forward.

“What are you doing, my lady wolf?”

“Sharing your bath,” she replies softly, “…and…your company, my lord. I- I have missed you very much.”

He brushes her hair back with his wet hand and runs his fingertips down her cheek and under her jaw. “You needed to get well again, Sansa; do you think I could have stayed away for any other reason?”

His voice is a deep and soft murmur and he is leaning closer to her and so she shakes her head once at his question and leans towards him to meet his soft kiss. He breathes her in deeply and deepens the kiss now and Sansa shifts to sit closer to him and to snake her slender arms up to his shoulders and around his neck. Her wet hands slide over his warm and damp skin as she slips one up into his dripping wet hair and the other down his wide back.

“This is what you want?” he asks her gently.

“Mm,” she sighs and kisses him again.

She feels his hands now on her own skin, and they slide easily over her waist and around to her back to pull her closer. Her body presses up against his, and she can feel the hardness of his member against the skin inside her leg. He grunts at their contact and reaches a big hand to grasp himself and another to cup her bottom and bring her closer. Sansa bites her lip in anticipation but instead of lowering her onto his manhood he rubs the head back and forth along her opening, slowly but firmly and so pleasingly that her head spins and she needs grasp the sides of the tub to keep from slipping away from him.

“Oh,” she breathes, and shakily moves her hands back to his shoulders to cling to him as she tilts her own hips back and forth in the same slow manner. Her insides are becoming as wet and warm as the soapy water surrounding them in the tub and she feels her blood rising from her toes and up through her body so that she is flushed to her hairline. Her breath is coming is shallow pants and her eyelids are growing heavy.

“Look at me, Sansa,” he whispers huskily, and she does. She sees his own eyelids are heavy and his eyes are soft and dark and staring into hers. “Ready?”

Sansa nods quickly. “Yes, oh yes…oh,” she gasps as he stops rubbing and slowly begins to ease himself into her. Her hands tighten on his shoulders and her fingers dig into his flesh. She feels herself open to him as she sinks onto his long and hard length and he follows through with a single, strong and steady thrust that fills her so completely that she can scarcely think to breathe.

“Gods. Be. _Good_ ,” he pants out the last word as he clutches her hips to hold her down onto him and his eyes widen and blink.

Sansa does not hesitate now; she rocks her hips towards him and back, towards him and back as she plants soft and languid kisses on his face and neck. Her husband lets his strong hands roam her body as she moves, first squeezing her bottom gently and then following the dip in her waist and up her ribs to her breasts. He cups them and lifts them and rubs his thumbs over her nipples to feel their firm points and this makes her body jerk with tension and her insides seem to tighten around him. She takes a deeper gasp of breath to feel him do it again and he grunts in response when she tightens herself every time she rocks her hips forward. It feels so good now to be in his arms in the warm water and to have him inside her that she raises and lowers herself now as she sways her body. The water in the tub starts to swirl and slosh back and forth and lap against the sides of tub in time to the rhythm of their movements. Sansa reaches her hands from her husband’s shoulders back round his neck, and then raises herself higher on his hard member to move up and down the whole length of his hardened shaft. When she lets a gust of warm breath blow across his neck and keens softly, the Greatjon leans forward and grasps her hips to move her faster.

“Now, now,” he growls tightly, “it’s been so long, my Sansa-“

She throws her head back suddenly and cries out: high and gasping and almost desperate in her release. She writhes and shudders as her coppery hair streams out behind her in the water and the liquid splashes and spills over the sides of the tub. Her husband buries his face in her throat and over her breasts and lets out a deep and drawn-out grunt of completion and she feels the sudden pulsing throb inside her of his spurting seed. As her breath heaves out of her from her exertion, the Greatjon pulls her forward to him and they lean against each other as their panting slows and quiets and their hearts stop thudding beneath their skin.

Before he can say anything, Sansa takes her husband’s face in her hands and kisses him tenderly.

“That…that was so lovely and _special,_ ” she tells him feelingly, though she immediately feels foolish at her choice of words.

He smiles contentedly at her and almost laughs. “Yes…yes, it was special, Sansa.” He leans forward to give her a full but quick kiss. “Are you cold?” he asks now. “Good,” he says when she shakes her head no; “sit back then,” he tells her and slips down to submerge himself in the water. He gives himself a quick and hard scrub all over with a sea sponge and a bar of hard soap. Sansa reaches for a soft linen cloth and washes herself daintily and discreetly beneath the water and wrings out her long hair before twisting it back into a knot. Finally her husband reaches for a pitcher of water and pours it slowly out over his head. He shakes the water out of his hair and beard like a dog and Sansa squeals and laughs when a shower of tiny droplets flies onto her.

“Come here,” he motions her towards him again, and reaches for a second pitcher of fresh and pours some of it out slowly behind her neck before taking her upper arm and having her stand with him. He tilts the pitcher again, slowly pouring out water over her breasts and belly, and then around over her back and bottom. His hands gently and slowly follow the water down her body and he admires her with his eyes. Sansa is overcome at his attention and ducks her head modestly now. He brings his face close to her ear.

“Shy now, are you?” he breathes teasingly. “You were as bold as a hungry wolf not moments ago…”

Sansa blushes and giggles but looks up at him slyly. “Gentle now, are you? You were handling me like a wild steed not moments ago.” But when she sees a flash of uncertainty in his eyes, she hops up to kiss him sweetly. “…and I liked it,” she assures him gently, and is pleased to see him smile down at her.

Suddenly there is a rattling at the door of the chamber:

“M’lord? M’lord? The door is barred,” a servant calls through the boards.

“I bloody know it’s barred,” he shouts back: “It was done from the inside, wasn’t it? Just wait out there and we’ll unbar it when we’re done it here.”

“Uh… _we_ …m’lord?”

“You heard me! I said wait, so wait!”

“Aye, m’lord,” the man answers but there is a muttering of voices in the hallway.

“Idiots,” the Greatjon grumbles, “best we finish up in here, then.” He steps out over the edge of the tub and then turns to lift Sansa out and set her down easily on her feet. They both take towels and while her husband roughly rubs himself dry, Sansa pats herself evenly and carefully, and he stands watching her with amused appreciation. They wrap themselves in their robes and he puts a hand on her shoulder and says: “Ready to face them, then?”

Sansa bites her lip hesitantly but nods to him so he takes her hand in his and leads them towards the doors and lifts the bar with one hand. He pushes the door open and the hallway is filled with a group of men slouching against walls and waiting. When he emerges, they all stand tall and stare, immobile.

“Well don’t just stand there all big-eyed, you louts! We’re man and wife, aren’t we? Show my lady some respect and cast your eyes down! Look at your blasted feet: it might keep you from tripping over them!” He berates them loudly and angrily but Sansa suspects it is for her benefit, to scare them from embarrassing her. “Now get to work in there; pack up my things to bring back to our chamber…but not _now_. Wait until we’ve left for the hall.”

“I fear that I have given more reason to talk, my lord,” Sansa apologizes when they reach their own chamber.

“If we didn’t give them reason, Sansa, they’d find one. Better their lord and his lady are happy together than not, hm? For then they would truly talk.”

Sansa feels herself smile dutifully, as she used to do; but she is overwhelmed by a terrible feeling of guilt and she wonders if she will ever be able to do enough to make him happy now: enough that the gods should forgive her and keep him from learning the terrible truth.


	21. Chapter 21

“But Mother, how come Aunt Arya’s wolf ran away and yours didn’t?”

Sansa smiles gently but sadly as she tried again to explain. “Because my wolf was innocent..I did not think that she would be killed, Eddard; and your Aunt Arya’s had be forced to run and hide.”

“But why did the evil queen say that _your_ wolf had to die?”

“She was evil, Eddard: it is the nature of evil people to want to hurt others. You must always try your best not to hurt others,” she tells him now, though her own guilt remains heavy in her heart.

She smiles now to see the Greatjon kneeling and holding his arms out to Serena as she walks unsteadily towards him. When she reaches him, he snatches her high into the air with a booming laugh that makes her squeal; then he sets her back down on her feet to start their ritual all over again.

“Come to _me_ , Serena,” her brother urges her now; but Serena only looks at him and steps back to her father.

“And _up_ she goes,” he exclaims loudly as he snatches her into the air again.

“ _Eeeeee! Hee-hee-hee_ ,” Serena shrieks and laughs again, and her husband and son laugh as well. She feels that she could be perfectly happy here with her family… _if only._

“Let’s play too,” she whispers to Eddard and he smiles back at her and they kneel on the floor with the Greatjon.

“Go to your mother now,” he says and sets Serena down facing Sansa. But Serena turns around and squeals as she walks stumblingly back to her father.

“ _Mm_ …DA!”

“YES, girl, I’m your Da! Good for you!” he picks her up now and rubs his bearded chin into the fold her chubby neck and she giggles and squirms.

“ _Ah-hee-hee-hee-hee_.”

Berena appears in the doorway now with a look of taxed indulgence. “Milord, you should know by now not to get her all excited before bedtime. I’ll be all night about getting her to sleep,” she reprimands him mildly and as no other servant would be permitted to do.

“Now, Berena, she just called me Da: is that not reason to be excited?” he explains himself.

“I expect it is milord: I’ll have the maester record it in his ledger,” she says wryly.

“Gods, woman: don’t be a scold-“

She eyes him coldly now. “I’d never be that, milord; it’s not my place.”

Sansa is surprised by the woman’s tone: she has never been anything less than respectful towards him, and though her words are above reproach, her manner is cold. She would expect her husband to tell any other servant to mind themselves, but in this instance he actually appears chastened.

Young Eddard breaks the silence that follows. “Can I eat in the hall with you tonight, please, father, please? I’m five now.”

“Hm? Are you?” he asks absently.

“You are five, young man,” Sansa acknowledges proudly, “and you behaved yourself very well when the men of the Night’s Watch were here. Mayhaps we should wait until they return?”

‘ _Please,_ mother?”

Sansa looks to her husband who nods curtly. “Very well, but you must thank your father now.”

“Thank you, father,” her son says as he walks to the Greatjon and takes his hand. “Can we go now?”

They walk together down to the great hall, where they have continued to eat their meals with the household. Sansa had secretly wished to resume eating alone in their chamber but she also knew that a lord needed to spend time with his people, as her father had at Winterfell. Nor did they spend long middays abed together as they once had, but they retired together earlier most nights and Sansa had noted the knowing looks that the uncles exchanged when they did. As the lady of Last Hearth, Sansa knew that her life would always needs be partly duty and she excelled at it; but now she had love as well, this time with her husband.

At their meal, Sansa watches that her son minds his manners and his courtesies but she also see that he watches his father. When the Greatjon spoons up the beef and barley stew and takes a second helping, Eddard does the same. When he drinks for his horn of ale, Eddard asks to try some and his father holds the horn carefully as the boy takes a sip and makes a face when he swallows.

 _He is such a kind father; he should have more children._ And her sorrow returns and her she lowers her head and the contents of her plate swim briefly as her eyes brim with tears; but she bravely breathes deep and wipes them away.

“Why are you crying, Mother?” Eddard asks anxiously.

Sansa smiles for him. “I’m not crying,” she laughs lightly, “the smoke from the candles is in my eyes.”

Without a word, the Greatjon moves the candle between them away from her and pats her knee comfortingly; but after their meal and once they have walked Eddard to his chamber to be put to bed, he steers her towards their own room.

Sansa’s maid is there to attend her and so he strips himself of his furs while her maid undresses her behind the screen and pulls her bedgown down over her head. When she leads Sansa to the dressing table to unbraid and brush her hair, the Greatjon sits in a chair dressed in his robe and watches. Once the girl leaves, Sansa smiles at him and tilts her head.

“What do you smile at now?”

“When I first woke up…after my fall,” she says haltingly now. “You were sitting there and sleeping in your furs and I wondered how a bear had fallen asleep in my chamber.”

“ _I called for a knight but you’re a bear_ ,” he sings and laughs self-depricatingly.

“ _My bear! She sang. My bear so fair_!” Sansa sings softly to remind him that the maiden fair came to love her bear. She stands and walks to him and he holds out a hand to draw her onto his lap. She sits and curls up in the warmth and safety of his big arms and rest her head on his shoulder.

“Was it truly the smoke in the hall that brought on your tears, Sansa?” he asks as he runs the pad of his thumb in swirls over her palm.

“I- Eddard admires you so much, and you are such a good father that I- I want to give you more-“

“Shh, no more of that. We’ll face what comes, Sansa. I don’t want you to cry anymore,” he tells her gently. “I want to see those blue eyes happy and smiling.”

She lifts her head and smiles up at him now.

“That’s better now. When it’s summer again, we’ll ride to Long Lake together-“

“Will we bathe in the waters?” she asks teasingly. It has been days since they bathed together and set the castle to talking.

“Right out in the open: naked as our name days,” he laughs now and settles. “I want to show you Long Lake: in high summer, the clear blue sky is reflected in the still waters…I had never seen anything so clear blue, Sansa, until you slid down off your horse and looked up at me when you came to Last Hearth.”

“You are so very kind, my lord,” she whispers now.

“Such a pretty little thing,” he kisses her head now.

“I’m considered tall for a girl, my lord,” she tells him, piqued that he should think her little.

“Ah, but not to a bear: _All black and brown and covered with hair_!”

“Or a giant, since that is your sigil; and not a bear.”

He chuckles. “True, and yet you are always a maiden fair,” he pushes her hair back from her cheek.

 _Liar. Faithless and wanton. Barren._ “If it please you, my lord,” she answers after dropping her eyes from his.

He puts a finger under her chin to look at him now. “Mayhaps you prefer to be a lady wolf?”

She smiles for him again. “Oh, yes, but more wolf than lady, I think,” she teases him.

He growls his hungry growl now and bring his head down to kiss her: a gentle kiss that deepens as she yields to him and breathes into him because she wants this, she wants to be close to him so that they can’t tell where she begins and he ends. When she thinks of it, she reaches all the way around him with her slender arms and presses herself as close as she can. His hand strokes down from her cheek and her long neck and over her throat and into her robe. She lets her head fall back as he pushes the robe open and her bedgown from her shoulder and runs a big, warm strong hand over her breast and lowers his head to kiss it gently but when Sansa hums her pleasure, he licks over her nipple and kisses her again before exposing the other breast to do the same as his hand slips lower to reach up under the gown and press gently between her legs and then rub slow circles that make her warm and wet and flushed. Finally she arches and presses herself into his hand and her husband stops and lifts her from behind her shoulders and under her knees and carries her to their bed.

As soon as he sets her down she sits up and reaches for him after he’s shed his robe and climbed in next to her. “It’s my turn now,” she tells him abruptly.

“What do you mean, now?” he looks at her quizzically.

“You…you always touch me,” she blushes, “and I don’t…I don’t know how to touch you but…please…I want to try.”

The Greatjon looks delighted. “Very well, Sansa,” he waits, “how would you like to start?” He sounds amused and she thinks that she may lose her nerve, but she doesn’t. She reaches towards his shoulders and guides him to lie back on the fur. She looks down the length of his great big body and decides to start at the top. Delicately, she runs her fingertips down his neck as he had done to her and then swirls them over the hair on his chest before sinking her hands in and running them back up to his neck. He has a thick pelt like a dog, she thinks, and she is surprised to feel that he has nipples simply because she has never seen them but she stops herself from laughing; instead she trails her fingers lightly over his muscled abdomen which he tightens in response to her touch. She breathes in suddenly.

“You’re ticklish too,” she accuses softly, but he is lying with his eyes partly closed and his lips parted and she sees that he likes how she touches him. She thinks fleetingly that she never touched her lover like this; but she does not want to think of him now. Biting her lip hesitantly, Sansa runs her hand down his leg and then slowly up the inside of his thigh until she reaches the coarse hair under his member. She feels the soft sac of skin and hears his breath catch as she lets her hand explore it carefully. She knows this is what men call _balls_ ; she’s heard the curses and oaths and the insults in the yard when they have told one another that they have none or that they must be very small. They seemed to tie them to courage and manliness and even brains at times but mostly she just sees how he likes her to touch them and so she does and she eyes his member as it grows bigger and harder. With a curious fascination, she moves her hand to trail her fingertips along the length and then swirls and circles the bigger tip that sits at the top like a large pommel on the hilt of a sword and now she does giggle because she knows that men and women both liken men’s manhoods to their swords: her husband has done it himself when making bawdy comments.

“Have you found something down there to laugh at, then?” he questions tightly though she sees that he smiles a strained smile.

“I have never wielded a _sword_ before, my lord…” she tells him in mock-seriousness, “it feels quite powerful.”

He sits up suddenly and takes hold of her waist. “I’ll show you just how powerful, _wolf_ ,” he says in a threatening voice that sounds more like a promise to her because his eyes are smiling playfully at her. Still, he does put her on her hands and knees on the bed and kneels behind her as he grasps her hips to hold he steady when he thrusts in a little less slowly and less gently than he usually does; but she doesn’t care because it feels so good that she gasps and sighs and tilts her hips back to let him fill her deeper. He begins to thrusts in again and again and they both cry out and Sansa thinks that this is alright for him to treat her less gently and that she really is strong, she’s a wolf and she is of the North like he says and she keens and sighs some more as he pants, and grunts and nearly shouts his pleasure from behind her.

…….

From the further end of the hallway, the uncles are leaving the solar with full tankards to take to their sleeping chambers.

“Ha! I told you: the lord only wants his red wolf,” says Mors.

“Hmph, and about time too; but if she’s the wolf, why is he the one howling?”


	22. Chapter 22

Sansa approached the steps with a conscious determination. It was, after all, the first time she had returned to the north tower since her fall. But despite her resolution, she could not help stopping at the base of the steps and looking at the ground. It was here that she had been so badly hurt, and how she had lost her child; and it was where she had fled the ended love affair that still haunted her conscience daily.

“Would you like a hand up these steps, my lady?”

 _Lady Sansa’s steps,_ she thought _._ She had returned to check the stores with her husband’s uncle, Mors, called Crowfoot, who now lumbered heavily toward her in his furs and, probably, halfway in his cups though it was not yet midday. Today he wore his dirty white leather eyepatch over his lost eye, which had been replaced with a chunk of glossy black dragon glass. His appearance had frightened Sansa when she first came to Last Hearth, despite the fact that she knew too well how little appearances meant in regard to kindness. While neither Mors nor his brother Hother had warmed to her, they had never been unkind or disrespectful…except when they spoke privately, she knew. She knew from having overheard them that they made crude talk of her and their lord: _riding his red wolf_ was how they termed their married relations and so Sansa sometimes found it uncomfortable to be alone with either or both of them. Still, he had offered her a courtesy, and Sansa always appreciated courtesies.

“You are kind to offer; I just- I just needed to stop a moment.”

He looks her over and nods curtly. “Least you can stop of your own will this time; you were a frightful sight when they found you, they say: bruised and broken,” he tells her bluntly, and nods again. “Always seemed a might too gentle and quiet compared with us, but you proved yourself strong enough in the end. It was good to see you on your feet finally but the lord won’t stand for you to be hurt again so,” he offers his arm to her and nods insistently this time, “go on and take it; I don’t bite the parts off ladies…only crows.”

She smiles gratefully now and takes his arm, and feels foolish for her hesitancy. They climb up to a storeroom and find it is still more than half full, and there are more stores in rooms up on the next floor. Two floors higher is Lord Jon’s tower room; but Sansa is unsure if anyone else is aware that it is there.

“Have we enough stores for the rest of winter?” Sansa asks. She thinks there is plenty but she does not remember a true winter, and Mors’ answer equals her own sense of caution.

“Depends how long winter lasts,” he replies bluntly, “and how many we have to feed: should it last too long, commons will come looking for shelter and to eat…in particular if those murdering, thieving wildlings come for their stores and their women,” he adds angrily, “then the commons’ll come for refuge as well. Too many inside the walls means we’ll all starve before Spring comes.”

Sansa cringes inwardly at his anger, but she believes that she understands him a little: he had lost his wife to the birthing bed, both his sons on the Trident during Robert’s Rebellion and his only daughter to wildings. She thought if ever a man had cause to be angry or unhappy, Crowfoot had. Sometimes, his anger and drunkenness, along with his disfigurement, reminded her of Sandor Clegane.

“Thought them wildings had taken you too when they could’na find you,” he tells her now.

“Yes,” she acknowledges, remembering what Berena had told her then. “I am so sorry to have caused such distress to everyone…and…and to bring back bad memories.”

“Had no cause coming here on your own,” he snaps, “just as she had no cause to go out on her own,” he tells her, referring to his daughter. “Women have no cause to go off on their own: not ever. We try to protect you and you defy us at every turn,” he grumbles. “See you don’t do it again: the lord don’t need the grief…my lady,” he adds grudgingly.

Words of protest and explanation rise to her lips but she stops them. She knows the reason she had given for being where they found her had been a lie: she had been in the tower to meet her lover, and so she had no real excuse.

“I hope never to cause my lord grief again,” she says honestly instead.

“Well…good,” he replies, mollified. “He’s right fond of you; more than’s good for him, I expect. Come along then: we’re done here.”

Her next trip is too the kitchens, where she is more respectfully treated; and she discusses what foods can be prepared and served to best preserve their stores. The cook suggests to her to begin reserving the better meat stores for the family but Sansa is gently adamant: soldiers and labourers need to eat heartily, and so they will share stores equally. They must boil the dried meats and keep the bones from roasted meats for broth. All drippings must be used to fortify dried pease and barley, and roasted vegetables, and lastly for fried bread. Milk is to be served first to expectant and nursing mothers and to children; and the bread and cheese is to be rationed to smaller portions. All kitchen and table scraps were to be collected and saved to feed the dogs and pigs. No waste could be tolerated: their very lives depended on it.

As she leaves the kitchens and enters the great hall, she finds servants cleaning floors and tables and so she stops to greet them and to praise their hard work. When she turns away from them to continue on her rounds of the castle, she sees her husband in the doorway watching her, and he smiles with his whole face to see her. Sansa smiles brightly too: she is always happy to see him now, and she hurries across the hall to greet him. She sees him furrow his brow as she does, and she tilts her head questioningly.

“My lord?”

“No need to hurry yourself, Sansa. I’ll never tire of watching you walk, and here you are denying me the pleasure,” he laughs his great laugh.

Sansa walks right up to him and speaks close and low: “Forgive me, my lord: I should hate to deny you…pleasure.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” he tells her and takes her hand and leads her from the great hall and into a hallway proper. It is darker and drafty since there is a door leading to the yard nearby, and because Sansa and the castellan uncles have rationed the use of lamps and torches in daylight hours. “Gods be good, it’s like the crypts in this passage,” he complains.

“Rationing is necessary to ensure that we survive the winter, my lord,” she explains.

“Yes, yes,” he dismisses her words testily, “but it’s cold and dark and I want to kiss you: how can I kiss you it I can’t see you?”

Sansa hops up to kiss him and laughs. “There, did that help?” she giggles.

He grabs her upper arms and pulls her closer. “Not enough,” he growls. “Come upstairs with me.”

Sansa flutters her eyelids daintily. “But, my lord, I needs visit the women who are sewing and knitting, and I haven’t seen the maester about the sick yet today-“

“The women will still be sewing tomorrow, Sansa; and the maester will see to the sick without you: so come with me and let me unlace your gown and unbraid your hair and kiss you from your head to your feet where it’s warm and lit!”

Sansa smiles, and takes his hand. “I only wish to do my duty as Lady Umber, my lord; I want to be a good wife to you but also a good lady to your people, as my mother was to my father’s.“

He looks at her and nods. “Very well, let us continue to your duties, Lady Umber.”

The women knitting woolens and sewing garments for the garrison and the castle are surprised to see their lord with their lady, but they answer his questions and smile to receive his praise and titter like young girls when the lord and lady leave hand-in-hand together, gossiping and laughing about whether they will grace the hall at meal time or dine alone.

There are few in sickbed despite the biting cold and the slippery ice around the castle yards, but those abed are happy to see their lord visit with their lady and take heart at their concern with their care.

“Do I have to be sick before you visit my bed?” the Greatjon jests after they have left the sick room.

Sansa pauses to think. “No, but…mayhaps you needs be quick!” With that, she gathers up her skirts and runs down the length of the hallway, laughing merrily to hear him curse and then follow with his heavily booted, large feet thudding against the wood floor. As she reaches the stairs leading to the floor where their chamber is found, she hears him call in alarm:

“Sansa, wait!”

Sansa stops short and turns suddenly to see his face is grave with worry; and she realizes that he thought she might run into the stairwell. She shakes her head now: “I will never again give you cause to grieve, my lord,” she assures him gently.

“I’ll hold you to that, Sansa,” he growls and grabs her wrists and pulls her to him forcefully while ducking his head and body so that she is thrown over his shoulder and he lifts her easily. Before she can catch her breath, he heads into the stairwell.

“My lord,” she squeals breathlessly, “please, set me down! Anyone might see…”

“Let them see: you’re not naked!” Then he stops on the stairs and chuckles low. “Not yet,” he adds.

Sansa holds on to the wide belt that circles his waist around his furs, and hopes that no one sees them: she feels that she must look ridiculous and that they have already given the castle too much cause for talk. She cares for him truly; but she wants the respect owed to her as lady of the castle as well. She also worries he will undermine his own position.

 _He’s right fond of you; more than’s good for him, I expect_ , Mors had said; and she wondered how caring for her too much could hurt him, and if he was thinking of the lord’s positon or of the passing of his first wife.

But she had no more time to think once they reached their chamber and the Greatjon set her down on her feet. Sansa looks up at him challengingly for having handled her so.

“You’re angry with me,” he observes.

“No,” she replies softly, “only I believe we should consider our position-“ she begins; but he laughs delightedly.

“I’ve been considering positions since I saw you in the great hall, Sansa; and I think we should attempt them all!”

She laughs now; he can be incorrigible but so very much fun at times like these. When she had dreamed of songs and romance long ago, she had never thought that marriage could be fun.

“That’s better,” he says leaning down closely to her. “Now if you start on that braid; I’ll start on your lacings.”

Within short time they are naked, and have kissed and touched each other and he has her on her back and, with their fingers entwined, he holds their hands above her head as he sways and churns his body over hers. In her desire to be closer, Sansa arches her body into his and wraps her legs around his waist before bringing her knees up so high that her legs are wrapped around his back. He hitches and grunts and begins to thrust sharply and quickly, and she strains to angle her own hips to meet his until they are nearly frantic in their lusts.

“ _Mph_ ,” she gasps into his mouth before breaking their deep kiss, “yes, oh yes: that’s so….so… _ah!”_ She keens and writhes beneath him as she reaches as shattering completion. Her husband thrusts even faster and then lets go of her hands to grasp the large wooden headboard of their bed and pulls himself deeper inside her as he rears over her and muffles a prolonged groan before collapsing on top of her. When he attempts to move off of her with a muttered apology, she stills him.

“Stay,” she whispers as she gently lays her hands on his broad back. “Please, just …stay.”

He does not move until his heavy breathing subsides and then raises his head to look at her.

“What is it, Sansa?’ he asks kindly.

“I like being close to you,” she whispers without opening her eyes.

“Why are you crying, then?” he whispers back.

She can feel the tears leaking out the side of her eyes. “I-“ _I love you_. “I’m very happy,” she whispers instead.

“Why are you happy?” he croons close to her ear.

Before she can answer they both hearing footsteps running towards their chamber, followed by a shove on the door that is blocked by the lowered bar. A timid knock follows with the sound of their son’s excited voice:

“Father! Mother! Smalljon is nearing home! They say he’s riding toward the gate with the Night men! Hurry,” he entreats them. “Please,” he adds after a pause.

“Run to the yard and greet him, Eddard; but mind the horses. We’ll be right behind you,” his father shouts. He lifts himself from Sansa and looks at her. She smiles gently now.

“Please go ahead,” she urges him. “I will need some time to make myself presentable again,” she blushes. She is still sprawled out on the bed, flushed and naked with her long auburn hair fanned out loose.

“You could not look more beautiful to me,” he murmurs. But when he stands he says: “but I would kill any other man who sees you looking like you do now.” And he smiles.


	23. Chapter 23

Sansa washes herself over the basin and then sends for her maid. While she waits, she straightens the bedclothes and bolsters and smooths down the furs that cover it.

“Milady,” the girl enters.

She smiles at her. “We have guests in the castle. I needs help with my hair; and I’d like to wear my new gown,” she tells her. She instructs the girl to make a series of small braids from her forehead to the top of her head and to leave the rest in a straight fall. Then she helps her to don fresh smallclothes, stockings and an underskirt of grey wool; then she laces Sansa into a gown of deep blue wool with a wide, high neckline trimmed with grey embroidery that runs down the tight sleeves. She finishes with the wide silver cuff the Greatjon had brought her from White Harbor after Eddard had been born, and after she had begun to share his bed. She looks at the cuff encircling her wrist and ponders what must have been the reason for his many gifts.

_He must not have wanted to marry again; and so gave me gifts instead of himself. I much prefer having his affections._

“Have the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and his men been shown to their chambers?” she asks the girl as she stands from her dressing table.

“There be only one other Black Brother with the Lord Commander this time, milady; and they’s in the solar with Lord Umber and Lord Jon both,” she tells Sansa. “They say the Lord Commander needed speak urgently with Lord Umber straight away.”

Sansa wonders what could possibly have been so important that the men should want to speak directly after arriving at the castle; and she recalls that only Samwell Tarly was to leave Jon’s company at Winterfell; but the girl knows nothing more than she has already told her lady. “Very well, I shall join them in the solar. I thank you for your assistance.”

She studies her appearance once more before the looking glass before turning to leave. As she enters the hallway, she can already hear voices, and she thinks her husband must be exulting in seeing his son and heir again and to have news of King Robb. But once she is nearer, it is clear that their voices are raised in anger: they are arguing loudly, and the loudest shouting voice is that of the Greatjon.

“Gods be true, boy, how could you have done this terrible thing?”

“Father, listen to me: I-“

“I’ll hear no more from you, Smalljon! I’m betrayed: that’s what this is! BETRAYED, DO YOU HEAR ME? BY STARK AND UMBER BOTH!”

Sansa stops stock-still in the hallway, not steps from the solar, with her heart in her throat.

_No. Please no. He knows._

Bile rises in her gorge suddenly, and she turns back to her chamber at a run with her skirts lifted. She continues running straight to the privy where she retches noisily but brings up only liquid since she did not eat at midday. Her heart pounds now as she stumbles back into her chambers and looks around in panic.

_I’m trapped_ , she thinks. _I should have run outside, into the yard and outside the gates. I should have run and run until I fell and froze and died. Oh gods, he will hate me! I cannot bear to see it._

She runs to the window now and pushes the shutters open with a bang and looks out over the edge. But there is fresh snow piled high beneath her and all she can think is: _it is not high enough, it will not kill me._ She had thought to throw herself from a window once, in King’s Landing, after they had taken her father’s head. She had wanted to die so that the singers would sing of her youth and her despair and of how she had been betrayed by those she had loved and trusted. But she is the betrayer this time; and no one would sing songs for her. They would be more like to curse her.

_The tower._

Yes, that was right: the place of her betrayal. She would fling herself from the North tower to show her shame and her regret, just as Lady Ashara Dayne had thrown herself into the sea from the Palestone Sword tower at Starfall.

_My children._ Sansa shakes now to think of her children and their shame when they are old enough to learn that their mother had betrayed their father and killed herself. She prays that her husband will not punish them, that he will continue to love them, and to believe that they are his. _He must know, surely he must know they are his. Young Eddard. Serena, my little bird…_ A sob rises in her throat.

The door opens behind her and she jumps, startled; and she turns to see him standing there. Her husband looks weary and downcast and defeated; but still he fills the doorway, and he is looking at her, unblinking, and he moves forward and shuts the door firmly behind him.

Sansa’s heart begins to beat frantically. “M-my lord,” she stutters now.

When he does not reply but only continues to look at her, she feels fearful. “H-have the men of the Night’s Watch b-been shown to their rooms?” she asks stupidly. “Shall I send for-“

“Sit down, Sansa,” he says quietly.

She walks haltingly and then sits awkwardly on the end of their bed. Her hands shake so badly that she needs clutch them together tightly. Her husband continues to stand near the door.

_I cannot escape now,_ she thinks; and realizes that she must face his wrath and his punishment and his inevitable hatred. But right now he only looks sad.

“Sansa,” he begins, and falters and so runs a hand through his thick greying hair. He is not looking at her anymore. “Sansa, you needs call your maid and pack your belongings. I am sending you home to Winterfell,” he tells her firmly.

_No. No, gods: I’d rather be dead than face them all. Mother. Robb. Old Nan even. They will hate me even more._

Sansa shakes her head: she cannot help it. “No, please, I- I don’t want to go.”

Though he is not looking and does not see her, he also shakes his head “There is no other way, Sansa-“ he begins.

 “Please,” she implores him, “please, my lord, I beg you: do not send me back to my family! I will be a good wife, a…a better wife, I promise. I know that I have done you ill-“ she stops short, knowing her words are stupidly inadequate. _Ill? You wretched girl: you betrayed him with his own son!_   Tears spring into her eyes and she is prepared to beg, to plead mercy and tell him that he can chastise her, beat her, lock her in a chamber or a cell even; anything but send her back to Winterfell. But he looks at her now and suddenly moves towards her with his hands reaching out. Sansa’s eyes widen in terror. _He means to kill me; to break my neck._ But his great hands settle gently on her shoulders and he looks at her with grave concern.

“Calm yourself now, Sansa. You will see that this is the right thing,” he tells her.

Sansa tries to quiet herself but she sobs in steady hiccups and pleads once more: “Please, my lord husband, do not send me back to Winterfell in disgrace; they already _hate_ me so.”

The Greatjon looks at with astonishment and leans in closer to her, his worry turning to fear. _He thinks me mad; and perhaps I am now._

“Sansa,” he breathes out in shock, “do you think I mean to forswear you…to send you away for suffering the accident that lost us our child? Do you think so meanly of me…after all we have been together? And why should your family hate you? Everyone loves you, Sansa.”

“No, no it was all my- my fault, you see,” she sobs, “I defied my father, and so the queen had him seized and made me write a letter to Robb but then Joffrey took his he-he-head. I just stood there and smiled at my fa-fa-father because I thought it would all be as it was supposed to be: my father would confe-fe-fess and Joffrey would show him mercy, and send him to the Wall. But he called for _his head!_ I called for them to stop; I screamed and screamed and pleaded for them to _please stop!”_

“ _Sh, sh_ , Sansa: no. It was not your fault. Did no one tell you? Renly sent King Robb word of all they had discovered. It was that devil Littlefinger that started it all: had Jon Aryn poisoned by his own wife and claim it was the Lannisters. Told your father that the city watch would support him if he challenged Joffrey’s right to sit the throne after Robert’s death, but they were in _his_ power; then he told that bastard Joffrey that he’d get more respect as a boy-king if he were unforgiving. He told him that showing mercy would make him seem a green boy but calling for a traitor’s head would make him look strong.”

“But-but- I wrote the letter they sent by raven and Robb called the buh-buh-banners.”

He sits down beside her now, and keeps a great hand on her shoulder comfortingly. He looks at her steadily but his brow is still furrowed in concern as he tries to explain.

“Aye, you wrote it, but we all knew those were the queen’s words you wrote. We marched to fight the Lannisters, and to free your father and his daughters from Kings Landing. No one thought you were to blame. Here now,” he takes her face in his hands and looks closely at her, at her forlorn expression and tear-filled eyes. “You’ve never spoken of Kings Landing before; we all thought you would want to forget,” he tells her and he drops his voice gently. “Was it very bad, Sansa? Would you speak of it now?”

Sansa’s lip quivers and she sobs out loud, a great wrenching cry of anguish and grief released; and he hold his strong arms out to her and she huddles shakily into the safe refuge of his shaggy furs and broad chest. She curls up and clings to him just as Serena does when she cries.

Sansa shuts her eyes tightly and begins to tell him of the day she went to the queen to ask to be allowed to stay in King’s Landing, instead of being sent back to Winterfell as her father had ordered. She tells how she was locked in a room, first by herself and then with Jeyne Poole who told her that her father’s people were all being killed; and then of being brought before the queen and told that her father was a traitor. She tells him of the letter she was told to write to Robb, and how she had still wanted to be Joffrey’s queen. She tells him of how people shunned her at court when she knelt before Joffrey to plead for her father’s life and how he promised mercy. She begins to sob loudly again as she recounts the day on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, and how she watched as the Kingsguard threw her father down and Ser Ilyn swung Ice to sever her father’s head and how his legs had kicked like a frog’s when he died. She tells him of how Joffrey first had her beaten when she had told him that she hated him; and how he kept having her beaten, though she paid him court and acted the part of his lady love. She tells him of the Bread Riots and the enraged mob that tried to pull her from her horse. She tells him how Cersei said she must still be Joffrey’s queen and suffer his humiliations and how, when Renly’s army surrounded the capitol, the queen had told her that she would die like her father and lose her head to Ilyn Payne’s sword so that their loss would not be a Stark victory. Finally she tells him how she had hid in her room and Sandor Clegane had come and she had thought he was sent to kill her but instead he protected her and stood guard by her door though he could have fled, and saw that she got safely to Renly and that Renly understood that she was a prisoner, and not a party to the Lannisters’ crimes. And throughout her terrible recital, her husband holds her close and strokes her hair and speaks quietly to her:

“That’s it, you have it out; cry it all out now, Sansa. It’s done now; it’s over. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

Still she shakes and cries and tells him more: “He told him, Sandor Clegane told him, he told Renly to send me _home._ I wanted to go home, to return to Winterfell. But then I saw that my family did not want me.”

“Sansa? Have you carried this with you all this time?” he asks her incredulously. “Did you really believe that we all blamed you for your father’s beheading and for the war, and that we hated you for it?” His eyes widen as though a truth has just come to him. “Oh gods be good,” he murmurs to himself now. “You thought this was a punishment…being sent so far away to Last Hearth.” He makes no mention of their marriage but he looks saddened and shakes his great head. “We thought we were protecting you, Sansa; we didn’t know what you had suffered in Kings Landing with the Lannisters, but we suspected it was terrible. Your family wanted you as far from the South and from Southron memories as we could bring you…any further North and we’d have had to hand you over to the wildlings,” he laughs hollowly, and his countenance darkens and his eyes are hard.

“I told them; I tried to tell them, Sansa, truly I did: to let you decide what you wanted, to let you tell them the truth about what happened-“ he stops talking now.

Sansa looks up at him curiously, her face stained with her tears.

“The truth about…about what happened in King’s Landing? I don’t understand…how would that change…how would it change how my family felt, or whether I came to Last Hearth? I did not know the real truth of what had happened.”

He is thinking to himself, she can tell, and he takes a deep breath before deciding to continue.

“It was that Greyjoy whelp who caused it all. I’m certain of it,” he says bitterly.

“Theon? I- I don’t under-“

“There were rumors, Sansa, about what might have happened to you in King’s Landing: crude rumors saying that you were like to have been despoiled by Joffrey and his men, or Renly’s soldiers when they took the castle. _A lion’s leavings_ , and worse, some had the gall to call you; though never where the king could hear them. Still, he heard…as did your mother.”

He looks down at her and sees that she is still bemused and so he explains.

“I could never prove Greyjoy started the rumors but he did look to benefit from them. He had nothing, you know: I told you how he lost everything he had in the North and on Pyke. Well, he went to the king and told him he had heard of your… _misfortune_ , he called it; and I could see some of your brother’s own men smirking. Then he grandly says he’ll take you anyway, as his lady; like he’d be bestowing a great favor on you, Sansa. But he knew if you were wed to him that Robb would needs give him lands and a castle, to keep you in a manner befitting the sister of the King in the North. I could see your lady mother was sore grieved, so much that she looked be considering the little shit’s offer. I was in a fury, I tell you. _A Northern Princess belongs with a Northerner, so we’ll hear no more about our King’s lady sister from you, Greyjoy,_ I bellowed and he cowered, though he kept his smirk. Besides, an Umber girl was taken off our lands, Mors’ girl she was: the wildlings carried her off. It was no fault of her own,” he tells her gently but she can see that he is angry. “I knew whatever had happened to you, Sansa; it was no fault of your own.” He brushes his hand softly down her cheek; then he sighs and speaks again.

 “Well…once he’d gone, King Robb asked if _I_ ’d have you. I thought surely he was jesting: I’m a man of an age with your own father, I told him; and they’d no proof you had been…that you weren’t a maiden any longer. But he said that true or not, people believed what they heard; and that no man would agree to wed you to his heir. And if it was true, well,” he says ponderously, “I already had heirs, and we would live far away so as not to expose you to ugly talk. No man would dare insult my lady wife, or question the legitimacy of any children; not if he valued his life,” he nods now. “The king said that he knew that I could protect you and keep you safe so you’d never needs fear being harmed again And I would be nothing like your pretty prince or any Southron knight…well,” he laughs shortly, “he had me there: there is no one less like that than me, Sansa.” He looks down to her now.

And Sansa just stares at him, and is dumbfounded.


	24. Chapter 24

_I was not a pawn, or a reward; he married me for duty. He married me to protect me, and at Robb’s command._   _Oh, gods be good: what have I done?_

She is looking up at him searchingly now, but he is looking to their bed ruefully, and he shakes his great head again.

“Of course, I found out that first night…still a maiden. A maiden and so young. Blast that maester,” he thunders now. “When I asked him how I should….should proceed, if I should wait to…if I should wait for you, he said no. He compared it to getting right back on a horse after having been thrown: best get it over and done with so that you would get over any fears. And he said it would give credence to any rumors about you if I were to let you wait. Forgive me but I believed him. It was Berena who counseled time and patience, but I didn’t listen; to be sure I did afterward but by then, well, it was too late. It was my fault: I was wrong to have trusted the maester but what he had said wasn’t anything that I did not want to hear then, you see,” he looks to her again now, and smiles wanly, “you were a shining prize for any man, Sansa; much less and old man like me, so long a widower. I remember you riding into the yard when you first came to Last Hearth: you were so young and so beautiful, everyone said you were beautiful; but I saw how proud you were and how brave-“

She sniffles to remember how dejected she had been to be marrying so far away from Winterfel and her family, to an old man whom she knew only for his loud voice and rough manners. She had tried so hard to hide it, and to do her duty to her king and to her family. It had not occurred to her then that he might have been doing the same.

“Was I brave?” she asks him now wistfully. “I wanted so much to be brave.”

His hand reaches to caress her face tenderly. “You were brave, Sansa. You were brave and we were wrong. You could have married any man in the North; but instead you were given to me, and all I could see was what a fine Lady Umber you would make. If only we had asked you about Kings Landing then we would have known, but no one could bring themselves to speak of it to you; and now we know that you might have had any young man, any heir to a lordship and castle; even my Smalljon might have done for you, for you seem to get on well enough though he still shows little interest in being wed. Forgive me, Sansa: forgive an old man for falling tumble-down in love with a pretty young girl and her proud seat on a horse.”

He blinks in embarrassment and looks down at his feet.

“There is nothing to forgive. You were not wrong, not truly. Even though I was not harmed, not that way…I-I _was_ a maid; Robb was right,” she says softly and somewhat dully. She knows rumor is enough; she had been disgraced in King’s Landing for being the daughter of a traitor; and Cersei had told her, with some relish she had thought, of how soldiers treated even high-born women when they had the bloodlust from battle. Soldiers who would do the same would have believed that she was despoiled during the sack, or before. “The truth would not have mattered: lords and theirs sons would have refused me, and I should have lived unwanted and unmarried and a shameful burden to my family. The truth never matters so much as what is believed to be true; and people will always choose what is best for them. You didn’t know if…but you married me anyway. You were kind to take me.”

“And you, Sansa? Should you not have been able to choose what is best for you?”

She shakes her head again. “Ladies do not decide for themselves, my lord: you know this for you have daughters of your own. Did not their suitors or their fathers come to _you_ with their offers? Robb, my brother and my king, had every right to choose my husband for me; as my father had before him. The choice was never mine.”

He is silent a moment. “I-  I hope I have been a good choice for you, Sansa; I have tried to be good to you-“

She looks at him again, and sees his humility, and his embarrassment; and her heart aches for him. Sansa thinks now of all his gifts, his smiles, his gentleness and his kindness, and she is overwhelmed and ashamed that she had thought only of herself and her own unhappiness for so long. She slips down from the bed and onto her knees before him, and wraps her arms around his legs and rests her chin on his knee and looks up to him.

“You have, my lord. You have been everything good and kind and generous to me…and to our children. I could not have asked for more…or better…in a husband and in a man…and if you needs ask me then I have been remiss, I have been horribly, terribly remiss if I have not told you and shown you how truly grateful I am for how very, very kind you have been to me.”

He scoffs dismissively. “Any man would have been kind to you-“

“No,” she insists fiercely. “No. Not all men are kind. Please believe me that I know this,” she tells him and there is bitterness in her voice and renewed tears trickle down her cheeks. “I know this and I shall _never_ forget.”

The Greatjon grimaces angrily. “You should not have had to learn such a harsh lesson, Sansa; I would like to kill all those who hurt you-“

Sansa presses her forehead into his knee and looks up to him again. “They are dead, my lord; and I would not think on them again. I would think on you, and tell you now of how I have failed you…please,” she insists, “please let me say this: I- I did not know how to be as open as you all are. I had a septa and learned Southron manners, and so I did not know how be as all of you and still be a lady… Oh!” She realizes what she has said, and how it is insulting to his family. “Forgive me, my lord; I meant that I had needed to be very guarded in my thoughts and my words when I was in King’s Landing and…oh…oh dear…not that your family or Last Hearth are anything like King’s Landing…”

Sansa was at a loss: everything she is trying to say comes out wrong. It was wrong because _she_ had been wrong, about so many things: her family, her husband, and mostly about herself. She had seen herself as alone and unloved when she had in truth been loved and protected without having realized it; and worse, she had betrayed him, all out of self-pity. She had never hated herself so much; not since she had thought that she had been the cause of her father’s imprisonment and execution. She drops her head to his knee again, but she feels his hand under her chin and so lifts her eyes to his.

“No, you’re not like us, Sansa; but you’re a Northerner, and you’re a good wife and mother and lady of the castle. You are beautiful and soft and gentle…and you make me very happy,” he assures her kindly.

She smiles back at him now and thinks: _he does not know, and I hope he never will. I will make it up to him: on my life and for all of my life._ But her smile fades as she remembers why he came into their chamber: he came to send her away.

“I- I am pleased…I am happy to hear…but…why, my lord, why should you wish to send me to Winterfell if…if we are happy together?”

He takes a deep breath and his gaze fixes on the middle distance, and Sansa knows he is thinking of something that is making him angry.

“It’s for your safety, Sansa: you and the children. You must go to Winterfell. Your mother has asked for you to go, and the King has sent men to escort you.”

“But Last Hearth is safe; and I am safe with you,” she tells him.

“Sansa…” he shakes his head and falters again, and she wonders what can be so difficult to tell her.  “Sansa, there was a gathering of the Northern lords at Winterfell. The King called them and your brother…or your cousin, the Lord Commander spoke to those assembled-“

“Wildings,” she surmises. “I know there have been more crossing into the North; we lost three men from the garrison only days before Jon arrived at Last Hearth. Are there more coming? Has the Night’s Watch discovered an attack planned on Last Hearth, my lord?”

“The Commander and his men discovered a plan to attack the Wall. Jon Snow was captured by wildings beyond the wall and pretended to join them to discover what they were planning, and they were planning to an attack on Castle Black. A man called Mance Rayder, himself a deserter of the Watch, had united the wildlings and called himself their king. They were going to breach the Wall and come into the North, and farther, if they could.”

“But…but they learned of the attack, and Jon escaped and thwarted their plans. Surely the Night’s Watch can fight off the wildlings: they have done so for thousands of years.”

“The Night’s Watch is sorely diminished in strength and numbers: and many have been going beyond the wall and not returning. Your Uncle Benjen was one; and there have been many more. Some if not most of the men recruited or send to the wall over the past years have been poor boys or criminals and rapists: not the type to care about the North or its people. They have just been surviving themselves, and now they are not.”

“Will…will the North needs fight the wildlings then? Will it be war at the Wall? If so, then my place is here: with you and the people of Last Hearth-“

“We will not be fighting wildlings, Sansa. Their king was killed attacking the Wall, and the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch has struck a deal with the King and the leaders the remaining wildlings: they are being let through the Wall to settle in the Gift,” he tells her tightly, and she knows why he is angry. The Gift is all that had separated Last Hearth and the lands of the Umbers and the Wall. Were the wildlings allowed to settle there in great numbers, the garrison at Last Hearth would not be able to fight them from trespassing on Umber land and taking its resources or attacking its people; they could even threaten the castle itself. The wildlings have always been enemies to Last Hearth. She understands why he felt betrayed, by Stark and Umber both since his heir Lord Jon must have agreed to it. She is angry herself, and does not understand what Jon and Robb could be thinking.

“But- but of course we will needs fight the wildlings. They cannot possibly find food and shelter in great numbers in mid-winter; and they will come further south to find what they can. Last Hearth and our people will be the first they will find, unless they venture into the mountains of the Flints and other clans. How can they have allowed this? Why did Lord Jon not tell them this could not be borne by the far North?”

The Greatjon chuckles softly now. “And you said you were not like an Umber: look at you now, Sansa, fighting for the safety of our people.”

“My place is with our people, and with you. I cannot leave Last Hearth, my lord: surely you understand that I must stay and fight with you,“ she is insisting to him. “It is my duty, and I want to stay. Please. Surely the King and my mother understand that: they send me here to be your wife and lady.”

He is silent and he shakes his head ponderously again, and Sansa knows that there is something she does not understand, or that he is not telling her. She reaches her hand now from behind his shin to his knee and runs it up his leg at looks at him imploringly.

“Please, my lord, tell me what troubles you…and the king. I-“

“We will not be fighting the wildlings because they will be fighting alongside us. We…we have a far worse enemy now, Sansa, and you cannot stay and fight with us. I want you to go, and take the children; I want you to be safe in Winterfell. And when you are not safe there, I want you to run: do you hear me? I want you to take the children and _run_ ,” he tells her intently now. He takes hold of her upper arms and looks at her so fiercely that he seems a man possessed and she is frightened now. “I want you to go South: to Riverrun, to the Reach, to Dorne. Go as far as you can and then keep going. Sail to Essos, or the Summer Isles, to the end of the known world if you must. Just be _safe_. And _live_. And…and think of me, if you would; and tell the children about me,” he runs a gentle hand down her cheek and she does not understand. Why should she run? And from what?

“Please, my lord: you frighten me. Why?”

He swallows and leans closer to her. “White Walkers, Sansa.”

She blinks in surprise, and almost laughs. She shakes her head instinctively, because it isn’t true. It cannot be true.

“My...my lord?”

“They’re real, Sansa. They’re real…and they are coming. For all of us. You brother has seen them, as have others in the Watch; and the wildlings as well. White Walkers and wights: a great army of them, he says; and nigh un-killable. You must see…you’re a Stark, and the Stark words are _Winter is coming_. Winter has come, Sansa. Winter has come.”


	25. Chapter 25

_It is not possible. It cannot be true._

But it was true. Sansa stands by her husband, and Lord Jon and her brother-now-cousin, the Lord Commander, as they try to explain to the people of the castle assembled in the great hall. Jon knows he has a difficult job of making everyone believe him.

“I know what you all think; I know because I believed it once myself: the White Walkers have been gone for thousands of years…that is if they had ever truly existed at all. They were stories from our elders and our nurses, meant to scare us to go to straight to sleep or to eat our vegetables. _The Others take you_ , we all cursed, or jested.” He stops now and looks over the hall commandingly, and Sansa can see how much he is like her father, and how proud he would be of the man he had raised for his dead sister.

“I can tell you now that the White Walkers _do_ exist, and the wights as well. I’ve seen them. My men have seen them. And the wildlings have seen them. We’ve killed some….but more have killed us. That’s because they are many of them: thousands and thousands, and they are not easy to kill.”

Sansa sees that women are clutching their children. She wants to clutch her own children and keep them safe; but they are not in the hall and no matter how bad things may be, she does not want to leave because she feels that she is deserting them. She finds that she can hardly look up to face them: her lord’s people, and hers.

One of them speaks now, a blacksmith; and he is not convinced. “Even if what you say is true, Lord Commander; how can be fight them, and how do we know we can trust the wildlings? They’re our enemy. They’re like to kill us all and take everything of ours before any White Walkers come to the Last Hearth.” His words are met with a grumbling assent from the rest of those in the hall. They do not trust the wildlings. Mors and Hother bang their tankards in support of the opposition.

“The wildlings are men, women and children, just like all of you. And they want to live, just like all of you. I know what troubles you’ve had in the past; I’m a Northerner too…like my father was,” and he lets his words sink in. No one outside the Stark family know that Jon is not Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard son; and this night, it is better that they do not know. They need to feel that they can trust him; and if Sansa knows this, then Jon must know it even more.

“And how do they plan to live? They’ve no fields, no stores, no homes, no castle, no lord-“

“The wildlings have leaders, and their people respect them. Yes, there will be those who don’t obey the laws; but we have people like that too, and justice to deal with them…and so do the wildlings. And if they cross into your lands, they will answer to your lord’s justice; just as any of you will answer to theirs if you cross them.”

“Can we steal their women?” a soldier asks and many laugh, some uncomfortably.

Jon looks pained though he smiles a rueful and fleeting smile. “Good luck to you: most can fight as good or better than you, believe me.”

“We’ll all learn too soon how well they can fight, Commander! You’ve betrayed us all!” Mors shouts in his cups. “The Stark King has betrayed us!”

“That’s enough of that,” the Greatjon interrupts before anyone can speak again. “There will be no words against our king or the Starks in my hall,” he says authoritatively but without rancor. He steps forward next to Jon now and addresses his people. “I did not attend this meeting with the king, as you all know; but my son did, and you all know and trust that Smalljon would not betray us. We know there is a bigger threat, and that the wildlings are pledged to fight with us. The Lord Commander has told me that some of them are even willing to come to Last Hearth or other castles to tell us what they know of fighting the Walkers. I will put my trust in our king and his family and invite some of these men to train with us. Anyone who objects…will be let out the gates and be free to leave.”

Sansa sees people glancing sideways at each other, wondering if they should stay or takes their chances with winter and leave. She hopes they trust their lord and stay, but she knows that she cannot judge them if they do not. Her husband tells them why.

“Lady Umber and our children leave for Winterfell under the King’s escort…though she begs me leave to stay,” and he turns now to look fondly at her, “but I have found this is the one thing I have been able to deny her,” he smiles sadly. “So I will not force any of you to stay; I can only tell you that I will do the best I can to protect you all…as I always have. We have stores to feed you, and walls to shelter you: I fear you cannot count on other lords taking you in with winter raging. And we cannot spare either horses or men to accompany you. Once you leave our gates…you will be on your own.”

Jon now speaks again. “As Lord Umber has said, we cannot keep you from fleeing, nor will we; but if you choose to stay and choose to fight…we will stand together with you to the last man and, gods be good, together we will save the North from another Long Night descending.”

There is a silence that follows and then a stirring in a corner as a young man steps forward. He is the ginger stable boy that Mors had mentioned when taunting his brother Hother.

“I’ll fight, m’lord: for House Umber and the North,” he offers in a voice that cracks and breaks, to the snickers of others in the hall.

“You do my house proud. Come to the armory in the morning to be readied for training,” the Greatjon tells him firmly with a sure nod. “I will start you off myself.”

The boy stammers but smiles proudly. “Th-thank you, m’lord; I- I’ll train hard and fight my best…I promise.”

“Welcome to the fight,” Jon tells him. “You have my thanks.”

“And mine,” Sansa adds. “You are very brave, and I wish you every luck, young man; I hope to see you here when I return.”

The stable boy bobs his head shyly. “I’ll be here, m’lady; I promise.”

“I’m hungry,” the Greatjon announces, meaning the subject is now closed. “Let’s eat.”

Their meal is subdued: talk is quiet and there is no music playing for their guests. Young Eddard is brought to their table to eat with them and is confused by the quiet, but he says nothing for a long while. Finally he looks up from his plate which, like many others, is mostly untouched.

“Is something wrong, Mother? Why does no one laugh?”

Sansa looks at her husband and tries to put on a brave face. “We… You and Serena and I will be travelling to Winterfell soon. Would you like that?”

“Is Father coming too?”

“I have work to do here, Eddard; and so I need you to go with your mother and sister. Will you keep them safe for me?”

“Yes, Father,” he replies but looks dejected. “Will we be away long?”

“I hope it will not be too long, Eddard; but I will show you Winterfell where I grew up, and where the King in the North lives. You can meet your princess cousins, and your grandmother and my younger brothers: Prince Bran and Prince Rickon.”

“Rickon is squiring for one of Robb’s commanders now. He…he may be gone when you reach Winterfell, Sansa,” Jon tells her now. “But Arya is there: Harrion insisted she stay until…until it’s safe for her to come further North to Karhold.”

“Is she?” Sansa asks now. “How was the wedding, Jon; I am so sorry that I could not have been there.”

“Arya was beautiful, Sansa; and happy. I think Harrion truly cares for her…or he’s afraid of the Starks,” he jests.

“I’m glad, Jon: glad that she has a husband who cares for her,” and she looks at the Greatjon now, who reaches over and pats her hand. She can see that his son notices this show of affection between them.

_He said he wanted me to be happy. I am happy with his father._

“Why aren’t you a princess too, Mother? Aren’t you a Stark?”

“Your mother _was_ a princess, Eddard,” his father responds, “but when a lady marries, she takes the title equal to her husband’s. I am a lord so your Mother is Lady Umber now.”

“Just as Princess Arya is now Lady Arya of House Karstark; and when Lord Harrion inherits Karhold then she will be Lady Karstark, just as he will be Lord Karstark like his father before him.”

He squirms and seems to think. “Will Smalljon be Lord Umber one day?”

“He will,” his father answers, “and you will be Lord Eddard of House Umber, as you are now.”

“But…will you have to die first?” He looks anxiously between his father and mother now.

“Heirs only inherit on the death of their father, Eddard: that’s how it is. That’s how it has always been,” Smalljon tells him gently to reassure him.

“But I don’t want Father to die,” he says.

“Father won’t die for a very long time, Eddard,” his brother tells him now. “He may even live longer than me,” he jests to him and smiles.

“Your father is the greatest warrior in the North,” Jon Snow tells him. “So your brother may be right.”

Sansa locks eyes with Jon. She wants his assurance that her husband will live a long life and that he will return to her and their children; but he only returns her gaze steadily and, to her mind, somewhat sadly. She drops her eyes now and takes in a deep breath. So they finish their supper mostly in silence and, after seeing Eddard to bed, Sansa joins the men of the family and of the Night’s Watch in the solar. Only the man called Dolorous Edd has returned with Jon.

“Where’s your lecherous singer friend, then?” Hother asks Jon.

“Deserted,” Jon answers flatly, “our first night at Winterfell. He went to the Smoking Log in the winter town and never returned. He’ll likely make for a port town; they’ll be looking for him.” But he is grim and weary.

“Did…did Samwell Tarly leave for Oldtown, Jon?” she asks him.

“He left for White Harbor after Arya’s wedding. He’ll stop in King’s Landing where he’ll meet with King Renly and his father, Randall Tarly. He will explain our…situation to them. Randall Tarly is one of the best military minds in Westeros, and Renly has control of Dragonstone.”

“Why should that matter?” Mors asks belligerently.

“Dragon glass,” Jon answers. “We need it to make weapons…to kill our enemy.”

“We kill our enemies with steel!” Mors replies contemptuously. “ I won’t be tossing my glass eye at them!”

“Only Valerian steel will kill a White Walker; or dragon glass. Sam found out for himself, beyond the Wall.”

“Are you telling me that fearful, fat boy killed one…one of _them_?”

“He did. With a dragon glass dagger found at the Fist of the First Men. They were left buried there for a reason.”

The Greatjon sighs audibly now. “Not many houses have Valerian steel swords; and dragon glass is not found in many armories,” he notes seriously. Sansa knows her husband is fearless; but he is not stupid and he realizes the way he has fought all his life may not help him or his people now.

“No, my lord: we are working with only a little knowledge right now. Fire will kill the wights, but it’s not easy to strike a flint or keep torches burning in snowstorms and cold winds. The cold winds rise when the Others come: so cold it’s like breathing daggers into your lungs. We may be able to use archers with flaming arrows or with dragon glass arrowheads…but we haven’t had the chance to try them yet.”

“Many will die, won’t they?” Smalljon asks now.

“Many will die,” Jon agrees, and then adds ominously: “and unless we can burn them after they have fallen, then every man who dies becomes another wight that we must kill.”


	26. Chapter 26

Sansa shivers in her bedgown and robe and looks around their room at the inn. The first village where they have stopped is small, and so she will needs share her bed with Berena and her maid while the children sleep on pallets. They have at least been given the largest room, with a big feather bed and its own hearth, but the day-long journey by covered sledge began early that morning, and she is still feeling chilled despite their fur cloaks and lap coverings. She glances now at the worn bolster, then she closes her eyes and remembers.

_To my Lord husband,_

_I leave Last Hearth at your command which I respect and obey as your wife; however I confess that I defy you in that I do not take my heart with me but instead I leave it here with you. I know that I shall have no use for it without you, and so I fear for its death from loneliness. I beg you to keep it close and guard it well, for I hope to reclaim it from you when I return to you and to my home, where my heart now dwells._

_Ever your devoted wife, Sansa_

She had written the small scroll that morning, and left it for him on his bolster at the head of their bed, tied it with a long plaited lock of her hair. She did not needs beg him for a token; she had brought his children with her. But she feels that she has failed by leaving him, for if ever she has needed to stand by her husband surely it is now. But he had insisted the previous night when they were still in the solar with Jon Snow.

“I’ll not be here to protect you, Sansa” he told her only the night before, “neither will most of the garrison. We will needs cross the Gift and fight at the Wall, if not beyond the Wall. I want you and the children safe.”

“But your older children-“

“My sons are old enough to fight. My daughter is married and so no longer mine to command; and she and her sister are almost as far away as Winterfell. I can only pray to the old gods that they remain safe…but you and our young children I can see to,” he tells her firmly. “Besides, the king has sent an escort for you; and they needs leave as soon as possible, in the morning.”

Sansa bows her head. He is her husband, and she will not defy him; she feels that she had already been too outspoken in proclaiming her wish to stay. Jon came over then to sit by her and comfort her.

“I admire your sense of duty, Sansa; I know that you learned from your father as well. But Arya is also staying in Winterfell at Harrion’s command.”

“Arya is not the Lady of House Karstark, nor is Karhold her home; not yet, Jon. This is my place,” she explains.

Jon looks over to the Umber men and leans closer to speak confidentially. “Sansa, do you remember asking me if I would seek out Daenerys Targaryen? Well,” he continues when she nods, “I have sent her a message, signed by myself, and by Robb. She has dragons, they say, Sansa: do you realize how much that could help us in our fight? If they truly are like the dragons of old, dragons that breathe fire, then it could mean the difference between living and dying…for all of us.”

“Jon,” she is astonished now, and glances as well towards the others in the solar and drops her voice quietly. “And have you heard-“

“Not yet, we had only just sent the message when I left and the gods only know how long it will take to find its way to her; but we hope to hear from her… You realize what this could mean, don’t you Sansa? If we invite her to fight with us…she may want to take all of Westeros. Robb may have to bend the knee, as Torrhen Stark did to Aegon the Conqueror.”

“Robb will turn against Renly?”

“He hasn’t pledged to fight in the South, nor will he; because we don’t expect Renly to show any less sense than Torrhen. If her dragons can defeat the Others, they can defeat the armies of Westeros. Robb knows if we don’t invite her, and we falter; she may come anyway but she may wait until our lands and people are decimated: better we live and be her allies than die and have her claim what remains as a conqueror.”

Sansa thinks now and realizes why he is telling her in confidence.

“The Northern lords don’t know this,” she tells him, and he shakes his head, “Some may not fight if they think help may be coming: some may wait and let other lords lose men and mayhaps their heirs and so benefit from their losses,” she says sadly. “Usually the lords have always supported the king.”

“Yes,” Jon agrees, “but this is not a regular war with spoils and glory to be won: it’s the Others; and the Ironborn are hungry and so are the Freys and both are too close to risk any division amongst ourselves. We are risking too much already by having all the lords and their armies heading to the Wall. Only Robb and I know of our invitation to Daenerys; and Bran, and now you.”

“With only daughters to his name, Bran is Robb’s heir; but why me?” Sansa smiles faintly: “Do you tell me to learn where my loyalties lie, Jon?”

“I know your loyalty is to your lord, and I know without question that his loyalty is to King Robb.”

“Thank you, Jon,” she replies. “I will let Robb tell him what you have told me; my lord deserves to hear this from his king.”

Her husband came over to them then, and offered his hand to Sansa.

“You should retire, Sansa. You will be leaving early; and travelling in winter is wearying.”

“Yes, my lord. Good night, Jon.” She takes his hand and leaves with him, and they walk slowly and silently to their chamber.

Sansa had dismissed her maid earlier, leaving the girl to pack her own belongings. She undresses herself, and sits naked at her dressing table as she brushes her hair. The Greatjon sheds his boots and his furs and, from her mirror, she sees him looking at her. She sets down her hairbrush and stands and turns to him. She stands still for a time, so that he can look at her and he does. She walks to him now and reaches for him without hesitation: she throws her arms around his neck and stretches up on her toes to kiss him and he lifts her onto their bed. Their love this night is passionate and wordless. They kiss and kiss and he runs his fingers through her thick auburn tresses, and then runs his large hands gently but firmly all over her, caressing her skin and mapping her every curve, as though putting her body to memory. He follows his hands with his lips and mouth, and Sansa touches him back by running her hands through is hair, caressing his beard on his face and tracing her fingertips through the hair on his chest. When he finally takes her, she cleaves to him, clutching his back and shoulders and his buttocks with her slender arms and wrapping her long legs around him to bring him ever closer, and hopes that he can feel everything that she has not yet been able to say to him. It is near dawn when they fall asleep in each other’s arms, exhausted. They are still entwined when they awake.

Many in the castle turn out to see her off. There are two sledges prepared: one is for their baggage and the second is enclosed by heavy curtains to ease their travel in the cold. Heavy horses toss their heads as they are bridled and they breathe out puffs of white clouds in the frigid air. The soldiers sent from Winterfell are so heavily wrapped in furs that they seem to her like a small army of bears covered in grey cloaks. Berena and Sansa and her maid are wearing fur cloaks with hoods and Serena is wrapped in a fur blanket. Eddard keeps pushing his own fur hood back from his head, complaining that he is dressed like a girl.

“Why can’t I stay with you, Father? I know how to fight,” he pleads.

“I know you do, Eddard; that’s why I need you to go with your mother. You needs keep her safe.” The Greatjon kneels before him now. “Do you have my gift with you? Good. I want you to promise to be good, be brave and continue your training, hm? Watch over your sister for me. I’m trusting you to being her back home.”

“Yes, Father,” he tells him and then throws his arms around him.

The Greatjon hugs him back with a hearty slap on the back, as he does with his older sons. He now opens his arms for his daughter who is being held by Berena.

“Come here, Serena. Who’s my good girl?” he coos.

“ _Mm_ …me,” she exclaims proudly.

“And who loves you?” he whispers closely.

“ _Hee_ , Da,” she laughs.

“That’s right: Da loves you,” he murmurs to her. “Give me a kiss now, and go to your nurse.” He leans into the covered sledge and hands her to Berena. Then he turns and offers his hand to Sansa. He nods firmly when she hesitates. “It’s time to go, Sansa,” he tells her.

Sansa knows there are many people present, but she does not think that a show of affection at such a time is improper, and so she lifts a gloved hand to cup his bearded cheek and raises herself up to kiss his other cheek. She pauses to whisper in his ear:

“I…I shall miss you, my lord.”

He puts his great hands on her shoulders both to lower her down and away from him and to touch her one last time.

“I’ll miss you as well, Sansa. Keep safe and please give my best sentiments to your family.”

He sounds almost formal, which is proper; and so Sansa bows her head and curtseys to him as a lady should. She takes his offered hand now to climb into the sledge.

“Farewell, my lady,” Lord Jon addresses her as he appears on her other side, and after a slight hesitation, she takes his hand as well. He leans his head into the curtains and says good-bye to his younger siblings. Eddard is subdued but Serena smiles and giggles at him.

Sansa hears shouts and the jingling of harnesses and the snap of reins and the creaking of the main gates as the sledge gives a powerful jerk and they set off through the yard, gliding over the packed snow. Eddard leans his head out the curtains and Sansa leans with him and they watch and wave to the assembled people and look back at the Greatjon who stands holding his arm aloft as they leave him behind in the snowy yard. They continue to look back until the gates are shut behind them. When the curtains close around them, Sansa is desolate, but she reaches her arms around Eddard and draws him closer to her.

“It’s your first trip away, Eddard; and we are going to my family ‘s castle: and we wills top in many villages long the way. Is that not a wonderful adventure?” she prompts him. She remembers how badly her own first trip from home ended, and she is glad he will be spared the same; but he does not seem excited.

“Yes, Mother,” he replies dutifully.

“What gift did your father give you?” she asks now.

He looks up at her and seems very hesitant.

“Is it a secret between you?” she guesses; and he nods. “Well, then I shall not ask you to break confidence. It is right that you should respect your father,” she smiles and he settles back next to her again.

Now after their long day of travel, they are settling in to sleep together. Berena finishes tucking in the children, and Sansa’s maid leaves to return to the main room below to empty their chamber pot and, Sansa suspects, to speak more with the soldiers who smiled at the girl all through their shared supper at table together.

When Berena spies how unhappy she is, she tries to cheer her.

“S’not so bad, milady; we’re snug and warm here. We could be sleeping downstairs with the soldiers…or still be at Last Hearth afeared for White Walkers…or just wildlings.”

“I do not believe I could ever be fearful at Last Hearth; and the Lord Commander believes most wildlings will obey our laws and not practice their…customs against us.”

“I’d like to believe it myself, milady; but I’ve lived long enough to have seen different and so I know well that I couldn’t ever bring myself to trust wildlings.”

Sansa turns to her and tilts her head inquisitively. “You must have been at Last Hearth when Uncle Mors’ daughter was taken.”

“Aye, milady; t’was a terrible time for all,” she intones wearily and does not look at Sansa.

“My lord says it was not her fault,” she says wistfully, thinking on his great kindness as opposed to Mors’ own harsh words about his daughter’s defiance.

Berena pauses and then answers indifferently: “I expect he would say so, milady.”

Sansa feels oddly irritated. This is the second time Berena has spoken less than respectfully, and she decides now challenge her.

“Your reply would seem almost insolent, Berena-“ she begins.

“Then I beg your pardon, milady,” the old woman says.

“And I do not give my pardon, Berena,” she tells her quietly but firmly, “unless you can explain yourself to me. Why do you say in that tone that you would you expect my lord to say the taking of Mors’ girl was not her fault?”

The woman seems to be gathering herself before turning to Sansa and looking her straight in the eye.

“Because, milady…it were _his_ fault.”


	27. Chapter 27

The hearth fire can be heard crackling in the long silence that follows the old woman’s words. Then there is the sound of jingling reins and a whinnying horse beneath the shuttered window. In that time Sansa does not blink at Berena but only stares stonily.

“I cannot believe that,” she states simply with a proud lift of her chin, “not of my lord. It is not possible.”

Berena only returns her gaze levelly. “I’ll not speak ill of your lord, milady, if you command me; but you did ask me to explain myself and I feel I must reply as an honest woman.”

Sansa knows Berena to be honest, and she did indeed question her and so she knows that she must therefore hear her out.

“Continue then,” Sansa tells her, though reluctantly.

“I do not mean to say the lord threw the girl out to the wildings, milady; but he did have part in it, unintentional though it may’ve been. You must know this happened many a year ago, and so the lord…the lord was not then the man he is now,” she tells Sansa carefully. “He was then of an age younger than even Lord Jon is now, milady.”

“How…how then was my lord different?”

Berena looks at her sadly and explains: “He was a young man; and heir to the lordship and to Last Hearth and so right full of hisself, milady. Oh, he was a great and strapping young man: strong and handsome and bursting with life and vigor. He was always wanting to fight and ride and drink and, well…he was a great one for wenching, milady,” the old woman said bluntly.

“But you came to Last Hearth with his first lady, Berena; surely he no longer-“ But she stops when she sees the look in the nurse’s eyes. Sansa is confused now. “But…but my mother said that he loved his first wife, and treated her well.” Now she stops again, remembering why she was send to Last Hearth to marry the Greatjon, and she realizes that her mother would likely have told her anything to encourage her to make the best of her life with her new husband. Sansa is so unsettled now that she is finding it hard to think straight.

Berena shrugs though. “The lord behaved himself well enough in company, milady; though I believe rightly that your lady mother did not come North until after the Rebellion was over. Mors’ girl was taken before them, and it all changed him some, and then more over time. ”

“You…you mean to tell me that…that he was unfaithful to his lady wife…his first lady wife,” Sansa questions uncertainly. ‘But…did you not tell me that she was well-suited to him; and that she had a smart tongue and a great laugh?”

Berena almost rolls her eyes at that. “Aye, milady, they were well-suited but you could’na tell him that,” she scoffs. “’Tis an odd thing with big men, milady: they wants dainty women for the most part and the young lord was the same. He chased pretty young things: serving girls and tavern wenches mostly, and he hadn’t needed chase them very far for very long. As I said: he was a right virile and strong lad, always laughing at a jest or making one. Tumbling girls came easy to him, and so he treated them easy too.”

“Was his first wife not pretty then?” Sansa cannot help asking now.

Berena hesitates. Surely, Sansa thinks, her question must be inappropriate; but it turns out that the old woman only feels disloyal in answering truthfully.

“I expect she was not what the lord wished for, milady: she was big and strong and capable, raised to be a good lady and run a proper home. She was a fine girl in every respect, make no mistake; but she weren’t the kind men wrote songs to nor dreamed about.”

“Why then did he marry her? Did his father-“

“Aye, milady: it were at his father’s command,” the woman says quietly. “He wanted big, healthy heirs and so he would not let his son choose a pretty little thing to breed Umbers; most especially into the lord’s line. To be fair to the old lord, they needs fight for all up in the far North so it were for the best in a way. Milady were from an old family in the mountains. The Umbers and other Northern families were always proud to marry up with them; even your lord father’s grandmother was from the First Flints, as you know, milady. They’re strong folk; not given to fancy manners or a soft life and so right suited for the Last Hearth. I were nurse and midwife to milady’s family then, and her father asked me go with her and serve in the castle. Well, didn’t that sound fine to me; so off I went for the wedding and bedding…” she trails off.

Sansa is afraid to ask what happened but she needs to hear the truth now. “What happened, Berena?”

“The young lord was polite but cold: you could see he were but being dutiful in the matter. He bedded her alright, but he drank his fill first-“

“Gods, Berena: did he hurt her?” Sansa thinks she may cry if the old woman confirms the worst to her.

But Berena shakes her head. “Not that way, milady; but I don’t think he cared for her feelings much. Like I says: it were duty to him.”

Sansa catches her breath. To think that the man she knows regarded and treated his first wife much as she had regarded and treated him when they were first wed is like an icy dagger to her heart. She wonders if he thought he deserved her coldness and mere dutifulness as his due after having taken her maidenhead at a young age against his better instincts. _Did he blame himself for having wanted me? Did he think I looked upon him with the same indifference he felt towards her? And how must she have felt to have been wed but unwanted?_ She had almost had the same with Joffrey, though infinitely worse: he was not just cold but cruel. She puts her fingertips to her lips and closes her eyes, overwhelmed. _How little I know my lord and husband still,_ she thinks.

She turns her head to the hearth fire again: something in the dancing flames and steady crackle soothes her, but also feeds her growing apprehension. _He is kind to you, and to our children_ , she reminds herself firmly _. The man you know is kind._

“Was he…was he unkind?”

Berena sighs. “I’d a’called it more indifferent-like than unkind. It were not a happy marriage, milady, not at first to be sure; and milady could have a sharp tongue, and so she used it agin him,” she almost smiles to remember. “Oh, she would’na defy her lord husband nor insult him outright, but she got her digs in. He’s mighty proud, like any Umber; and he liked to hear himself talk. She could prick his pride with a wicked word. Well, can you imagine how he liked that, milady? Not at all, to be sure: _a wasp,_ he styled her; and _a scold_. And milady’d laugh her bawdy laugh at him,” she looks pleased to say so.

“A scold,” Sansa repeats. She remembers how coldly Berena replied when the Greatjon had called her that.

“Aye, milady,” she tells her almost slyly, “as I said: it were not _my_ place to be that…but it were _hers_.”

Sansa looks to her now. “Your words chastened him greatly. I expect that was your intention.”

The old woman blinks and looks chastened herself now. “No, milady: I’m sorry to have been disrespectful to him, most especially before you. Your good opinion matters the world to him. Besides, it was so very long ago now but…”

“But you were upset to remember how your lady was treated, and how hurt she was. Do you resent me, Berena? My lord has never mistreated me, or been anything but kind,” Sansa asks now.

The old woman looks her in her eyes again and speaks frankly: “No, milady. I could never grudge you his kindness for you deserve it well; but so did she, and she didna get it for some time.”

Sansa drops her eyes now and she fiddles with the lace cuff of her bedgown that pokes out beneath the sleeve of her fur robe. “And that time was after Mors’ girl was taken?”

“It was, milady.”

“Then how did it happen? Surely,” she pauses before she asks, “surely my lord did not attempt to…to bed his own cousin. Did she run away from him? Is that why he says it was not her fault?”

“Gods, no, milady,” Berena breathes. “T’was her maid he bedded,” she tells her now. “A right pretty thing she was: small and dainty, with a fine figure and lovely skin. Her eyes were so pale brown they looked golden, and her hair like honey. Any man would’ve wanted her, but it were the lord’s heir that took her…and not agin her will neither,” she says with a trace of bitterness. “I reckon she lifted her skirts on their first meeting and thought herself special for it; like he wouldna plowed any maid that walked upright in those days,” she adds grumpily.

“And his lady knew.” It was not a question.

“Aye: she knew he bedded others…and preferred them to her. Them in the castle liked to talk; and he did naught to hide his habits from them for he’d lived with them all his life. It were she who was the outsider, and he weren’t careful of her feelings, like I said. Can’t say if she knew about the maid a’cause she never spoke of her, nor of any others. Not once. Not even after.”

Sansa is hanging on Berena’s words now. “Berena, please tell me how Lord Umber was at fault.”

“Like I says, milady, he did not throw her out the gates, but he’s the reason she left the castle without escort. Her maid had promised to walk with her to the village to see a mummers’ show; but then she snuck away so’s to meet with the young lord instead, somewheres in the castle. Well, the girl had never seen mummers; we don’t get many up here, as you know,” and Sansa nods. “Well, being an Umber and stubborn, she sets out the castle gates alone when she couldna find her maid;  thinking either she’d left and so would catch up to her or that she’d go herself. She’d been so very excited to go, milady; you see she was a sheltered girl a’cause Mors’d lost his wife and sons. She chaffed at that; more so after she’d flowered but he held strong. He’d forbid her leave to go anywhere without her maid; though why he thought that’d be enough, I canna say. Might’ve been the wildlings a’taken them both; but, as it was…”

“As it was, they only took Mors’ girl,” Sansa says sadly. She is almost in tears. She knows what it is to feel isolated in the North, without mummers or music: she had felt that way at Winterfell as a girl, and then later at Last Hearth when she was fist married. Oh, how she would have loved some diversion; then perhaps she would never have turned to Lord Jon…

“They did take her, milady: only her fur muff and hair ribbon were found. She’d gone off the main path; might be she heard somethin’ or was lured away somehow. Later, some commons said they saw wildlings heading back North with horses they stole strapped with carcasses they’d hunted. One big man had a girl wrapped in a cloak in front of him. Wildlings don’t never wear cloaks, milady: she were a stolen girl on a stolen horse.”

The wind howls now to rattle the wooden shutters, and the fire flares up from the sudden gust before dying down again. Sansa buries her face in her hands and gathers herself before speaking again. “And then? Did they find my lord and her maid together?”

“Nay, milady; it where some time later they discovered she were missing. When they couldna find Mors’ girl anywheres, they finally send out soldiers to search. And when Mors learned that her maid hadn’t been minding to her when she were supposed to…well, his wrath were a frightful thing: he dragged her to the hall by her honey hair and flogged her bloody before the entire castle-“

“Oh, _no_!” Sansa cries out in horrified dismay. She could well remember being struck and stripped and beaten before an entire court by knights. She could almost feel it again now, in this room in an inn so far away. “How then…did my lord not stop it? Did he not-“

“Not a word did he say, nor take a step in her direction,” Berena tells her quietly. “Stood there likes the rest of us as she screamed and cried she was sorry.” She pauses and Sansa sees the pain in her face. “He weren’t the lord of the castle then; the old lord were still living and he just watched it too. We all did, milady. I expect more felt bad for Mors than for her; but it were a terrible sight to witness. A terrible sight,” she repeats in a whisper.

“And did the maid herself say nothing? Did no one know…where she had been?”

“Some might’a knew, but none spoke. What good would it have done, milady? Mors’ girl was gone; and blaming the young lord woulda’ caused such a great hatred in the family. I expect the maid knew that herself: there were never to be any kind of life for her at Last Hearth after that day, whether the young lord confessed or no. Why ruin him too? Why even think they’d believe naught but a serving girl agin the lord’s own heir?”

Sansa sniffles and draws breath: “But _he_ knew,” she says mournfully.

Berena is quiet now but then finally acknowledges Sansa’s words.

“Aye, milady: he knew.”


	28. Chapter 28

The firelight casts shadows across the ceiling of their room in the inn and Sansa stares up at them and thinks how sinister it looks, like dark figures rearing up to corner and to frighten her. She cannot sleep: all she can see when she closes her eyes is the terrible image of Mors, huge and drunk and mercilessly angry with grief and loss, hulking over the figure of a girl and lashing her with a hickory switch or a leather strap until she bleeds and screams and cries.

_Not a word did he say…_

She draws a quivering breath and bites her lips so she does not cry. She wants very much to cry: for the maid, for Mors’ daughter, for Mors even…and for her lord. She would like to believe that he would have been braver, or more honorable; but then she remembers her own faults and how much pain they have caused: to herself, and to others.

_Sansa,_ he had asked her when she had spoken of her guilt over her father’s death, _have you carried this with you all this time?_

She wonders if he has been carrying this inside of himself, all of this time. She shuts her eyes tightly, and she feels herself shake and the tears leak out and run down the side of her face into her ears.

“Milady,” Berena whispers next to her, “don’t you feel angry at him now: it were so very long ago…”

Sansa swallows carefully and whispers back to her: “I am not angry at him; I- I feel bad for him, Berena. I feel bad for all of them.”

“You’ve a kind heart, milady. Don’t think he did not feel bad himself then: it were him who led many of the patrols that kept on looking for Mors’ girl, and they went out most every day and night for near a moon’s turn. Some of them went as far as the Wall too. Mors would somedays stumble out afoot, deep in his cups; he’d be meaning to search for his girl but they’d find him on their way back, passed out drunk in the snows. That’d be when he lost his eye too: a crow took’im for dead and pecked it out so didn’t he just grab it and bite the darned thing’s head off. But it were all for no good: the girl was gone and not comin’ back.  The morning the old lord had to call a halt to the search, the young lord up and walked out of the hall and out the gates of the castle. Found him in the godswood the next morning, near dead from cold and drink, he was.” She pauses now and then almost sounds like she might laugh. “Didn’t think you could kill an Umber with neither cold nor drink, but he came right close that time. T’was milady who nursed him back: she spent many a day, all day shut up with him until he were better. I expect they came to terms in that time, for he treated her with some respect after; and if he kept up with other women still it were on the quiet.”

“She sounds like she was a fine, strong lady, Berena.”

“She was that and all, milady. But it were good of him too: he learned how his words and deeds could hurt others, and he learned the hard way. He treated folks kinder after that and…spared a thought for them. It helped make him a better lord too, when the old lord passed on. Of course, he’s still every bit an Umber: hale and hearty and he’ll rail and shout and he’s got a fierce pride and a fiercer temper, but he can be right kind and gentle too…as I expect you know,” she seems to prompt Sansa.

When Sansa does not answer, the old woman sighs and continues whispering across the bolster: “We all of us make mistakes, milady, and some mistakes are worse than others and can’t be fixed; but they can be learned from, and make us better…teach us to do what is right. The lord leaned that and changed his ways a’cause of it. I reckon that’d be the best anyone can do, milady.”

“I think you are right, Berena,” Sansa whispers tearfully. “I think that is the best we can ever hope for when we make such…such terrible mistakes: to change ourselves for the better; and pray that we do not hurt others again.”

Though it is dark and shadowed, Sansa can tell that Berena is looking at her. “Goodnight,” she whispers and sniffles before turning her back to her in the feather bed. She does not want to be with Berena, or her maid, or in this bed in this room in this inn so far from Last Hearth and her lord. She wants to be beside him this night: she wants him to hold her in his great arms and she wants to hold him back and to comfort him. She wants to feel safe and protected and believe that nothing bad will ever happen to either of them again; but instead they are far apart and facing a terrifying enemy that could keep them apart forever.

_Please,_ she implores the gods, _I want to make up to him what I did. I want to make him happy; he deserves to be happy…just…please._

She sleeps only fitfully that night, frightened that she will dream of Kings Landing again after so long. At table in the inn the next morning she is quiet and listless and picks sparingly at her plate of eggs and fried bread. Berena prompts her to eat.

“’Tis a long day ahead, milady, and we may not stop again ‘til nightfall; best get your fill when you can.”

“Eat, Mama,” Serena smiles to her with a mouth full of eggs.

“I will, Serena; but you must not speak with your mouth full. My little bird will be a little lady, yes?”

Her daughter opens her mouth to answer again but then shuts it and nods instead. After she swallows, she looks around the hall of the inn and asks: “Where Da?’”

“Your Da…your father needed to stay at home, Serena; but we’ll see him again,” she tries to comfort her. Eddard looks up from his plate now to her, and she sees he is not convinced by her words. “I miss him too,” she tells him.

Her children are restless in the sledge and so she tells them stories and sings to them and they all play at teaching Serena new words before they finally fall asleep from the steady rocking of the sledge with Sansa’s maid snoring softly between them. Berena smiles wearily.

“I thought they’d never quiet down but travel be wearying, even on babes,” she whispers. The wind is blowing coldly and sometimes gusts of sparkly snowflakes blow in through the gaps in the heavy curtains. They brush them from the cloaks and fur lap coverings.

“It is,” Sansa acknowledges. “Berena?”

“Yes, milady?”

“I wonder…if I might…”

“Ask me what you like, milady. We’ve plenty of time to pass, and there’s no secrets about what happened then; as I said before, it were only a long time ago.”

“Yes,” Sansa looks at her maid fast asleep, “but there is also talk in the castle and, well, I prefer-“

“I understand, milady.”

“Thank you, Berena.” She hesitates nevertheless before asking the question that haunts her. “What…what became of the maid…after she was…punished?”

‘She were flung from the castle, though it were winter still. Someone handed over her cloak and her few things in a bundle and she were put out the gates with her bloody dress still on her back. Out she went, never to be seen nor heard from again, though some soldier who went to the Wall told tales that she were in Mole’s Town but it were no mean feat if she made it so far on her own…unless she had a hand from a soldier or other man.”

“Do you think it possible that my lord…that he may have found and helped her?”

Berena purses her lips and then shakes her head. “I wouldna know, milady; for if he did none spoke of it to be certain. She for sure never would’a found work in a castle again. Folks knew why the patrols were out, and ravens were sent out to mountain families to ask for word of the girl or any wildlings about. It were all too dire to keep secret,” she relates to Sansa.

“Of course,” Sansa agrees. “Even as a girl in Winterfell, the tale was still told, though it was meant to make us wary of wildlings and to keep us from wandering off alone, the girls especially.”

“I fear there’d always be danger in that, milady; wildlings or no,” the old woman states firmly.

Sansa looks across to Serena who is sleeping next to her maid; and thinks of how she would like her to fly away someplace safe but she wonders if such a place even exists in the world. “I- I fear that you are right, Berena.”

The old woman smiles somewhat now. “The lord loves his little girl, milady: he won’t stand for nothing to happen to her. Never fear in that.”

Sansa smiles herself now. “He does, doesn’t he? It is so very touching to see; and he is so good with her. Some men care naught for daughters, I have heard.”

She remembers that she had once feared that she would only give Joffrey girls and not sons; and then she thinks of the Greatjon’s daughters, and how they had welcomed her kindly and invited her to sit and sew with them when she was pregnant with Eddard, and how they had admired her skills with a needle. But they had both left soon after her arrival when the eldest was wed. Sansa had even helped her to finish her wedding gown. But she had not seen them since then, for she had not travelled with her husband to see them because she had been with child each time and the maester advised against travel in her condition. But she knew they did not lack affection for their father; and that he returned it in kind.

Berena sighs faintly. “The lord and his first lady had their first girl-babe sometime after all the trouble; and you can believe he felt blessed and curst together to have her. She were the first girl born to an Umber since Mors’s girl, you see. That’d be when he truly started to respect milady: he knew nothin’ about raising girls and so deferred t’her for the first time…and t’me too,” she looks up at Sansa with a wry smile. “Not for the last time neither: he could see we knew what it were all about. _Ask your Ma or Berena,_ he’d tell them; and not a word agin us were permitted. He’d chastise them only with firm words ‘bout respect; he never raised a hand nor that great voice of his to those two girls, not never; and his sons were forbidden to as well. T’were milady that had the stronger hand with them; and by his consent.” The old woman nods assuredly now, showing her approval of the Greatjon’s fathering of his daughters.

Sansa smiles a wry smile of her own, and Berena only lifts her brow. “Forgive me, but it sound so much like the way my lord treated me when I came to Last Hearth…except for the- the bedding, of course,” she blushes to remember.

The old woman makes a sniffing sound, and Sansa is not certain if she is amused or disgusted. “Aye, your bedding,” she acknowledges now, “that were not a fatherly doing,” she says somewhat sourly.

“He…he did try his best to be gentle. He thought…that is, there had been talk-“

“I know about the talk, milady; though it were clear that you were a maid when wed…and bedded. I tended you myself,” she reminds Sansa.

“I know. I remember; and I am grateful to you. I know that you disapproved my lord’s decision to…to forge ahead-“

Berena laughs once at that. “Forge ahead, did her? Did you pray to the Smith god from down South to protect you then? I told him you were too young, maiden or no; but most especially if you were not…” she purses her lips again.

“Yes,” Sansa tells her, “he told me.”

Berena smiles almost wistfully, and every wrinkle in her aged face draws upward and she looks upon Sansa with something close to tenderness.

“You must know, milady, with all I’ve told you, that you were what the lord had always wanted: a beauty with a gentle nature, dainty even with your height, and such a feminine and refined lady. A Stark of Winterfell too: a real Northern princess, you were. I think even a skinny stable boy could’a knocked him over when he saw you ride into the yard that day. He was right smitten with you.”

Sans smiles gently and turns to look at her children, _his_ children.

“It be a good thing that you learned to return his affection in time, milady; and though I expect he were always happy with you, he’d be much happier now…” she stops short because she knows that no one is terribly happy now. “I meant to say, milady, that I you also help him to be a better man, without him needing to hurt for it.”

Sansa cannot but help thinking again to all the times that she has hurt, because she wanted things such as gentler siblings, a beautiful splendid life, to be a queen, and mostly to be loved with the love she had heard of in songs. She had wanted them so badly that she had failed to see what she already had. Now she wanted other things, but what she wanted most has to give: to give her service to her lord and his people, to give a good and safe and happy life to her children, and mostly she wanted to give love to her husband. And that was the most splendid life she could imagine.

Though this realization makes her both sad and happy, Sansa needs to work to keep the smile on her face. ‘I- I hope that you are right, Berena. I should never wish to hurt my lord,” and she turns back to her now that she can speak sincerely, from her heart: “You see, he makes me a better person too.”


	29. Chapter 29

The sledge rocks and the horses’ reins jingle as they rush over the packed snow covering the wide path that leads from the Kingsroad towards the east gates of Winterfell. Sansa had been watching from out the curtains since the castle had first come into sight; though the wind chilled her face and snowflakes blew into the closed sledge. It stands solid and immense and unchanged, just as it has since the Age of Heroes, and as it did when she was a girl and it was the centre of her life. There are flocks of crows pecking on the ground, and they scatter and fly away as the horses approach at a swift gallop. She hears the shouting of orders and then the great creaking of the castle gates as they are opened and the hollow rattle of the sledge passing over the drawbridge.  She is met now with cries of welcome by those men who recognize her and she smiles to them fondly.

“Eddard, Serena: we are at Winterfell, the castle of the King in the North,” she tells them excitedly as they pass through the inner wall and underneath the covered bridge linking the Great Keep to the armory.

“Where king?” Serena cries now that the sledge has stopped.

“The king has gone North, Serena, to fight with Father,” Eddard tells her, and he does not smile.

Sansa must turn away from him though, when the curtains are flung back and the solider who led them announces: “Winterfell, my lady,” and offers his hand to help her down from the sledge. “Mind the ice, my lady.”

“Thank you,” she smiles courteously and nods to him. “If you would be so kind as to help my nurse with the children-“

“Sansa!”

She hears the cry from the doorway and turns to see her mother hurrying to her over the slippery pathway leading to the Great Keep. She is wearing a heavy fur-lined cloak with the hood pulled up over her graying auburn hair.

“Have a care, Lady Stark,” another soldier warns her and offers his hand. A servant runs out of the Keep now to scatter gravel over the path.

Catelyn Stark all but ignores them to greet her daughter after so many years; and Sansa remembers that she has not seen her since young Eddard was born.

“Oh, Sansa…” She opens her arms for her daughter and enfolds her now: “My sweet, sweet girl,” she almost croons. When she leans back to look at her she smiles and says: “Welcome home, Sansa.”

Sansa chokes up at her words, and she notices the changes in her mother’s face: she sees the lines from age and grief over her husband and worry for her children and now for the North. Sansa loves her mother; but her mother is mistaken and she corrects her now.

“Thank you, Mother,” she replies, “but…Last Hearth is my home now.”

Her mother’s smile falters a little. “Of course, Sansa…well, I am pleased that you are here.”

“I am very happy to see you again, Mother; it has been so very long…since Eddard was born.” She turns to her son and leans to put her arm around him and bring him forward. “Eddard,” she says, “this is your lady grandmother.”

Eddard takes a step towards her and bows: “My lady,” he says politely and then stares up at her curiously.

Lady Catelyn’s eyes go wider and she kneels before her grandson now. “Young Eddard,” she breathes, “let me look at you, for I have not seen you since you were born.” Her eyes narrow slightly as she examines his face. “He’s an Umber,” she pronounces finally.

“Yes, of course he is,” Sansa replies, rather too quickly and firmly than she intended. She wants there to be no doubt: her son is her husband’s son; and not the spawn of some unnamed soldier in King’s Landing…or worse.

“I know that well, Sansa, since I helped to pull him from you; only I had hoped…but you have always favored my Tully looks; only Arya has your father’s features.” She smiles at young Eddard again. “You were named for your grandfather, Eddard: he was my late lord husband.” She smoothes his hair down now. “You have your mother’s hair, I see; but you are the Greatjon’s boy in every way.”

Eddard’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Yes I am, my lady: he’s my father,” he explains seriously.

“You will remember my nurse, Berena, Mother; and here is my daughter Serena,” she tells her now.

Her mother nods to Berena and welcomes her to Winterfell and then steps closer to her granddaughter.

“Serena, I’m your grandmother,” she speaks gently to the girl.

“ _Hee-hee,_ ” Serena grins. “Gamma!”

Catelyn Stark shakes her head in wonder. “She has the shape of your face and your mouth, Sansa; but the rest…pure Umber,” she remarks again.

“I should take the children inside, milady,” Berena advises.

“The steward will show the way,” Lady Stark motions her towards the entrance to the castle. “Come, Sansa: there is a fire in your old room to warm you,” she pauses now and drops her voice as she slips her arm around Sansa’s waist. “Jon told us why you could not come for Arya’s wedding…I am so very sorry for your loss, Sansa.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Sansa whispers now.

“Smalljon said that you were recovering well, though; so there will be other children, Sansa: you are still young and you have lots of time,” her mother tries to comfort her.

“I- You are right, Mother, only…you are right.” Sansa did not wish to discuss her pain with her mother; she fears that she will not be as understanding as her husband. Any woman would wish for her daughter to breed many sons for her lord; and Sansa does not want to be any more of a disappointment to her. “Where is Bran? And…and Arya? I have not seen Arya since….since King’s Landing,” she chokes out. Sansa wonders if Arya will not want to see her.

Her mother purses her lips somewhat. “Arya,” she begins and shakes her head, “Arya is training. Your father… had arranged for Arya to learn sword fighting while in the capitol; and she insists on practicing every day.”

“She did? But father told me she was taking dancing lessons…” she trails off, remembering that she and Arya fought terribly in King’s Landing, Her father would never have told her that Arya was sword fighting.

Lady Catelyn laughs shortly. “ _Water dancing_ , she calls it, in the Braavosi style; so there was some truth to it. She will be around later. I expect. Bran is in the solar,” she says sadly, “it is more difficult for him to get around in winter, of course; but he will be pleased to see you, Sansa. He misses Robb, and Rickon. But I must take you to see Roslin and the girls first; the little princesses will be happy to meet their Umber cousins.”

Sansa looks up to the walls of Winterfell. _It has been so long since I left; yet it still feels so familiar._ She remembers too how quickly she was packed off to the far North when all she had wanted was to be home again. _Don’t think about that: they meant to protect you._ When she enters the castle, she tarries as she takes in the feeling of its warm granite walls and the soft glow of the torches. She catches herself up to her children and Berena in the hall leading to the solar.

“We needs greet the king’s family immediately, Berena,” she whispers, “and I hope that we shall have excuse not to stay too long if the children should tire.”

“Very well, milady. I-“

But she is cut off by the sudden presence of a man in their way. He is lean and handsome and dark-haired, with a dark cloak flung back over his shoulders and a kraken sigil on his breast. He looks Sansa over head to hells now with a knowing smirk.

“Lady Umber, is it?” Theon Greyjoy greets her jeeringly. “You’re back to join the rest of the wolves, I see. How do you like living in the furthest reaches of the North then, Sansa?” He looks down haughtily on her children now. “I see the Greatjon doesn’t leave off you. Did he even wait to get you upstairs to bed you once you were wed?”

Behind her usually passive expression, Sansa can see that Berena is shocked at his impertinence; but Sansa only smiles gently and flutters her eyelashes.

“My lord and I are quite happily married, thank you. Surely you know just how strong and vigorous my Northern husband is, Theon, for you fought alongside him…for a time,” she retorts with a sly innocence. “Are you in Winterfell to meet with the King? I fear that you may have _just missed_ him.”

She sees his jaw tighten as he clenches his teeth in anger at her remarks, but before he can answer her son turns to look up at her.

“I don’t like him, Mother,” he says plainly.

Sansa looks at her son now. She knows that she should correct his manners, for his words were discourteous; but she cannot resist putting the man who spread ugly rumors about her in his place. “You must not say such things to a person’s face, Eddard; even if you think them. But it is quite alright that you should not like him,” she assures her son now, “neither does your father.”

Sometime later, after greeting her family and Robb’s, Sansa excuses herself, saying that she wants visit the godswood before it is dark. Instead she turns when she heads out of the Keep, feeling the soft snow fall against her face and melting there, and walks toward the old lichyard around the First Keep. It is there that her direwolf Lady is buried, and she wants to visit her grave. She crouches carefully so as not to kneel in the wet snow and she brushes the off the small marker and then touches it lightly with her gloved fingertips.

“Lady,” she whispers, “I miss you so very much. I wish that you could have been beside me these years; mayhaps then I should never have forgotten myself.” She pauses to wipe a tear from her eye now. “Sweet rest, my Lady; I never shall forget you.”

She stands now and looks down sadly on the quiet and, to her mind, lonely spot: here with the long dead and forgotten loyal servants to the old Kings of Winter. Her heart has not felt so empty since she woke from her fall to realize that she had lost her babe.

“I knew I would find you here,” a gruff voice says behind her.

Sansa turns suddenly, startled; and she sees a lithe young woman wearing breeches and a jerkin under a dark grey cloak with a black fur collar.  Her long, serious face has grey eyes: her father’s eyes; and her dark hair is pulled back and loosely braided and is sprinkled with melting snowflakes.

“Arya,” she breathes, and waits for an answer, any answer. When her sister only looks at her, she swallows apprehensively before speaking again. “Jon…Jon was right: you are beautiful, Arya.” She takes a tentative step towards her. “It…it has been so long since I have seen you, and there is so much I have needed to say:. I…I’m so sorry, Arya, for…for everything. I was wrong about-“ She cannot bring herself to say his name, not here; she does not want _him_ or _them_ to matter anymore. “I was wrong about everything, Arya; and I am sorry, even sorrier than I can ever say. I hope someday you may find it in your heart to forgive me. I-“

“I forgave you for Mycah a long time ago, Sansa, because Father asked me to. I know you suffered for your wrong; and I’m sorry that you had to learn the way you did.” She glances towards Lady’s grave.

“We…we both suffered for my wrong…” she tells her. Then, with a muffled cry, Sansa runs to her sister and throws her arms around her. She begins to sob. “I had thought you were dead…for so long I thought it; and then I thought that you _hated_ me,” she sniffs.

“I knew you would cry,” Arya scoffs lightly now. “We’re Starks, Sansa; and the same blood runs through both our hearts. We’re wolves too: we’re a pack, and we need each other. _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_. Father told me that.” She looks fierce as she says the words to her sister.

Sansa smiles through her tears. “You are so like him, Arya; and they say you have the look of our Aunt Lyanna.”

“That’s what the old Northern lords who came to Winterfell all said,” she grins wryly at Sansa.

“I’m so sorry that I could not come for your wedding, Arya.”

“So am I, Sansa; I’m so sorry for your….your accident.”

Sansa nods sadly; and then takes Arya’s hands in hers. “Come and meet my children, Arya. They will love you, I know they will. We may have Stark blood, sister; but I am also an Umber now, and you are a Karstark.”

Arya laughs softly, almost a cough; and Sansa thinks she blushes a little. “Are your children giants, Sansa? Do they roar and need to be kept in chains?” She jests about the Umber sigil.

Now Sansa smiles at Arya’s jest. “They are true Umbers; even Mother said so. Eddard will be big and tall like his father. It is too soon to say with Serena. My lord’s elder daughters were big girls: tall and broad; but so was their mother, I am told.” She furrows her brow to remember all that she has learned of the girls’ mother in the last days. “Will you tell me of your lord, Arya? I met Harrion only once at Last Hearth; but I was very big with child then and so did not stay long in his company.  Is he as bright and warm as the sun of winter?” she teases her sister with the words of House Karstark.

But Arya does not smile, she does not even try; nor does she look at Sansa. But before Sansa can bring herself to question her sister she feels her squeeze her hand tighter and when she looks again, Arya _is_ smiling.

“There is someone I wanted _you_ to see, Sansa; and I hope you will be pleased,” she tells her.

Sansa is confused, and so Arya raises her chin to direct her to look towards the entrance to the crypts behind them. She turns and looks through the still-falling snow, searching for someone: a man, she thinks. _Did Harrion not leave with Robb?_ When Sansa finally sees who is there, she is astonished and elated. _Gods be true_!

“Nymeria!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I decided to revise my story description since the Greatjon/Smalljon/Sansa triangle has for some time not been the main plot of the story. Comments welcome. Thanks.


	30. Chapter 30

The Great Hall is warm and noisy and smoky and Sansa sits at table between Arya and her good-sister, Queen Roslin. There are platters of roasted meats and vegetables and loaves of bread at each table; and servants circulate with pitchers of ale and flagons of wine. The many dogs gnaw on bones thrown to them beneath the tables. Sansa is surprised by what she considers careless wastefulness during winter but she knows it is not her place to remark on it. Instead, she listens to Arya recount how her direwolf returned to Winterfell.

“It should not surprise me that she should have survived so long in the Riverlands: there was always game and, sadly, many corpses to eat, I am sure,” Sansa tells her.

“Men are meat too,” Arya retorts quickly, “she hunted with other wolves: they were a pack, though she lead them, of course.”

Sansa looks at her oddly. “You cannot know this, Arya; certainly she did not _tell_ you.”

Arya looks levelly at her. “She didn’t need to tell me, Sansa; I just _know_. I used to dream at night that I was hunting with wolves and Nymeria lead them.”

“Dreaming that you are hunting with wolves is not the same as being a wolf, surely,” Sansa questions her.

Arya fiddles awkwardly with her knife. “She knew I came home,” she tells her. “Not a fortnight after I returned to Winterfell, Grey Wind and Summer and Shaggydog set to howling one night. They would not stop; and the guards on the wall reported that there was howling outside the walls as well. She came out of the wolfswood and across the fields under the light of the moon, right to the Hunter’s Gate. Robb told them to let Grey Wind loose, and came to wake me. I knew right away, Sansa: I had been _dreaming_ it,” she tries to explain, but Sansa can see from her face that there is something that she does not understand. “I asked Robb not to tell you. We all thought you might be hurt…to be the only one without your wolf; Bran especially felt bad for you. He went to the godswood for days after, to ask the gods to send you comfort. Then we heard that you were expecting a baby,” she smiles at young Eddard who is sitting next to their mother.

“The Greatjon sent a raven to your mother, to ask if he could send for her when your time came close. She says he was very concerned for you,” Queen Roslin adds. “Robb was very pleased that he would show such care for you, Sansa: he wanted very much for you to be loved and protected especially after…after Kings Landing,” she hushes her soft voice to speak of Sansa’s ordeal. “I- I hope he chose well for you, for you seem happy with your children,” she smiles wanly as she looks at young Eddard now. “You are so very fortunate to have given your lord a son. I have prayed to the old gods to have an heir for King Robb-“

Sansa puts her hand over Roslin’s now to comfort her. “You will, your grace,” she murmurs gently. “There will be time again, when he returns to you. You will see,” she smiles encouragingly now, though she has fears of her own about the war beyond the Wall. She glances up to see Theon Greyjoy glowering at her from across the Hall, but he drops his eyes to his cup of ale before turning back to the other men at his table.

“Mother, why is Theon here? And why does he sit with the garrison? Does he lead men North from Winterfell to the Wall?” She in unsettled by the way he looks around the Hall. He is familiar with Winterfell: he was their ward since the age of ten, and so she cannot imagine why he is darting his eyes to look at every person and in every corner.

Her mother sighs unconcernedly. “Theon visits frequently from Pyke. He is Queen Asha’s envoy to the North…though I have no idea what his business is this time. Has he said, Roslin? Well, no matter:  doubtless it makes him feel important,” she dismisses him lightly though she purses her lips in annoyance.

“As long as it makes him feel important _enough_ ,” Sansa says with a quiet seriousness that makes the others her at her questioningly. “Theon lost everything by reaching for too much, my lord husband has said; and so he does not trust him…nor do I.”

“Nor does Jon,” Arya replies. “He did not like Theon being at my wedding…but they never did get on: neither felt like true Starks,” she glances at her mother now.

Catelyn Stark purses her lips even more tightly and drops her eyes. Roslin leans over towards Sansa now.

“Do…you know…about Jon?”

“Not here,” Catelyn cuts her off sharply, “your grace,” she adds humbly.

Later in the solar, with only family present, Roslin asks Sansa again about Jon.

“Yes, Jon told me when he stopped at Last Hearth on his way to see you. He had wanted to tell me to my face; and he warned me that Robb had decided that it should remain a family secret, for Jon’s protection.”

“Yes,” Catelyn states now, almost bitterly, “it was all to protect Jon…and Lyanna; it was for them your father had to tell the world that he had a bastard son.”

“Surely you must understand, Mother?” Sansa questions her. “Lord Reed said that he had made a promised to Aunt Lyanna as she lay dying; and Father was always a man of his word.”

“Yes, he was so honourable that he let the world believe that he was _dis_ honourable…that he had dishonoured me. He let _me_ believe that he had dishoured me, and he brought what I believed to be his bastard into our home to raise with our own children. How in the name of all the gods was I _supposed_ to feel? You all think me the most terrible woman in the world…but my own husband did not trust me enough to tell me the truth; and I did not trust him enough to realize that he was lying,” she finishes, but Sansa can see that she is more hurt than angry.

“No. Mother,” Sansa reassures her. “You are _not_ terrible: Father meant for you to feel dishoured, and to believe that Jon was his bastard. Had he not…Mother, you know what happened to Rhaegar Targaryen’s children.”

“I should have known…or I should have realized that it could not be true. I was so blind…and I was angry with him,” she laments now.

“You could have accepted Jon anyway-“ Arya begins sullenly, but Sansa interrupts her swiftly.

“That’s not fair, Arya. Besides, it was safer for him if you…well, if you resented him: it made people not look too closely or ask too many questions. Please do not be so hard and unforgiving with yourself, Mother; not after Father did everything he could to hide the truth from all of us. Even my lord did not guess the truth, though he says he should have known; and he had known Father and Lyanna most of his life. You had only just married Father before he had needed take leave of you to fight and then was gone nearly a year; he was a stranger to you, and  so you could not have known any differently.  And Father scarcely knew you either: if you could have known or guessed the truth than anyone else could have… _King Robert_ could have guessed,” she tells her pointedly now. “Father would not take that risk with his only sister’s son. Some secrets are too dangerous and too hurtful to divulge…even to those we love.”

Her mother looks at her sadly now, and tries to smile. “You have always been so kind and gentle, Sansa; now you are wise as well, and forgiving. Thank you.”

_Wise and forgiving,_ thinks Sansa with her own bitterness, _but_ _my lies are not so noble as Father’s, nor is the cause of them._

“Sansa, you told the Greatjon? But Robb said it was to be kept a family secret,” Arya reminds her.

Sansa lifts her head to look at her. “My husband _is_ my family,” she says firmly, “mayhaps in time, you will feel the same way about your husband, sister.”

Catelyn defends Sansa in turn now. “Arya, no one is more loyal to King Robb than the Greatjon. You know that well. We can trust him with our lives: all of the Starks can.”

Arya responds by rolling her eyes and moving to a window seat, leaving Sansa alone with her mother near the hearth.

“Thank you, Mother,” Sansa whispers gratefully.

Her mother seems to watch her carefully now. “Forgive me, Sansa, but I cannot help but think that you care very much for him now.”

“He is my husband,” Sansa replies simply.

“I know that, Sansa, but that is not what I asked you. You did not love him when you were wed, and not after your son was born,” she tells her levelly. “I do not judge you in saying so; for I felt the same way towards my husband once. Like you, I did my duty and married where I was told; but I came to love your father, as you well know. I would be very happy to know that the same has happened for you,” she waits for Sansa to reply.

“Is…is that what you hoped, Mother?” Sansa asks her.

“Yes…it is the same for Arya, as well-“

Sansa stiffens at her reply. “No, Mother….it is not the same for Arya. Arya was older than I was when she married, and she was able to live in Winterfell again before being wed.”

Catelyn draws a sharp breath now. “Arya was still a girl when she returned home; you were a young woman grown and flowered. Had Renly not taken the throne, they would have wed you to Joffrey…or some other Lannister in hopes of claiming Winterfell and the North through you-“

“But that is not why you and Robb sent me to wed Lord Umber, Mother. I know why you did it: he told me before I came here.”

Lady Catelyn drops her eyes now. “He is a good man, Sansa; and he was the only man to speak respectfully of you after…after,” she shakes her head.

“He is a good man,” Sansa replies, “and a good husband. I only wish I had known why you felt that you had to send me away. I thought that you were ashamed of me, or that you blamed me for the letter I sent from Kings Landing. I thought him my gaoler, the man tasked to hide me away. It was unfair to keep it from me.”

“Sansa, how in the name of all the gods could I have asked you if you…if you had been…what would it have changed? The Greatjon would still have agreed to wed you; but no one else would have. My sweet girl: you are so beautiful and have so much love in you; should I have let you live your life unwed and without children, to see you become a septa, or a silent sister?”

“It would have changed how I felt about _him_ ; because I thought I had been a but pawn for an alliance or a prize for loyalty to Robb.”

“Sansa,” her mother retorts sharply, “ _all_ noble marriage are for alliance or reward: they are forged for politics or profit. And many high-born girls thought… _dishonoured_ are generally married off to household knights or to very old men, _not_ to the high lord of a castle. Love simply does not enter into it, not at first: that comes later… _if_ you are lucky. It is past time you learned that and forgot your girlish and romantic notions of love from songs and stories; though gods be true, I would have thought your time in Kings Landing would have done that for you. Now we did what we thought best for you, what Robb, _your king_ , thought best for you; and I had hoped that in time you would come to see that. If you feel that we failed you then I am sorry, my girl, but you are the Lady Umber of Last Hearth, wife of the Greatjon and mother to his children; and I suggest you make the best of it,” she intones severely.

“As you did with Father?” Sansa counters hurtfully. “Or was there a lie between you that made you guard your heart and question his love for you?” She sniffles back tears now. “I- I _do_ love him…just as much as you loved Father; I only wish I had not wasted so much of our time together feeling sorry for _myself_ , as you did; when now I may lose him forever...as you lost Father.”

Sansa turns away suddenly, and drops her face in her hands so as to cover her sudden tears. She has given voice to her worst fear; and any pretense of feeling brave or being dutiful has crumbled with her heartfelt confession.

_I have said that I loved him…and it wasn’t to him. I should have said it to him. Now I may never have the chance._

She sobs softly at the thought that she has failed him yet again. Then she feels a gentle hand patting her back and the warmth of her mothers’ arms around her and the once-familiar scent of her skin and hair as she holds her close.

“Oh, my sweet Sansa, I am so sorry that you are afraid,” she soothes her as she rocks her and strokes the auburn hair, the hair she has from her mother. “Your lord is strong and brave and fearless, Sansa. If any man should come back from this fight, it will be him. Be strong, Sansa: I know it is hard, my girl…I know,” she repeats solemnly.

Sansa feels ashamed because of course her mother would know. Catelyn Tully Stark had seen her father, her husband and her son ride off to battle; and then her husband had left for Kings Landing and only his bones returned. She remembers how she once wanted to be strong like her lady mother.

“I- I know you do, Mother,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I’ll be strong…just like you.”


	31. Chapter 31

“Good night, Mother.”

Young Eddard sits in his bed in the chamber that he has been given. He is all alone and, though his has his own chamber at Last Hearth, Sansa can see very clearly that her son is lonely and uncomfortable in his new surroundings. She sits on the edge of his bed now and smiles gently at him.

“Eddard, I want to tell you how very good you have been on our trip and here in Winterfell. Your father would be so proud of you: you have been very courteous, and very brave.”

He scrunches up his nose at her words. “There is nothing to be brave _about;_ we are safe here, Mother.”

“Mayhaps, Eddard…but you had never left your home before, and you did not want to leave home to come here,” she prompts him.

He drops his eyes. “No,” he admits quietly, “but…Father said we must.”

“Yes, he did,” Sansa agrees, “and we must obey your father. Children must obey their parents, wives must obey their husband, smallfolk must obey their lord, and we must all obey the king.”

“Yes, Mother.”

She reaches now to brush back his hair, so like her own thick auburn hair, and cups a soft hand around his cheek to raise his eyes back to her. “Eddard, there will be things in your life that you will needs do that you may not like, or that do not make you happy, because it will be your duty. How well you bear that will depend solely and entirely on _you_. If you bear it well: that can be brave,” she finishes as she leans now to kiss his forehead.

“Was Grandfather Eddard brave?” he asks her now.

“Yes,” Sansa replies after a short pause and her voice catches. “My father was very brave…though he needed to do things that he did not like, because it was his duty.” She takes his hand now and gives it a gentle squeeze. “I never fought alongside my father of course; but your father did. Mayhaps he will tell you stories one day, it you ask him,” she smiles again.

Her son’s mouth turns down now. “When will he see him again?”

Sansa’s smile fades as well. “I do not know, Eddard. I pray it will not be very long. Shall we go to the godswood tomorrow and pray together, as your father taught you? Good,” she says when he nods. “Sleep now, my brave boy. Berena will wake you in the morning.”

Eddard lies back and she pulls the furs of the bed up to his neck and tucks them around his shoulders. Her smile returns when he looks up at her.

“You grandmother is right, Eddard: you have the look of your father.”

After checking on Eddard and seeing Serena in the nursery with Berena and the younger princess and her nurse, Sansa retires to her own chamber: the one that had been hers since she had stopped sharing with Arya when they were girls.

She feels oddly forlorn because she remembers that she once wanted nothing so much as to return to this chamber in Winterfell and be a girl again; and, now that she is here, she wants nothing so much as to return to Last Hearth.

_The gods must be laughing at me again: for I always seem to get it wrong somehow._

Once her maid has undressed her and brushed her hair, Sansa settles in the featherbed alone to find sleep elusive and she wonders if she should sent for wine.

_Wine is not what you need,_ she tells herself, _nor what you want._

She misses her husband, now in the most physical way. Sansa closes her eyes and tries to imagine that he is in her room with her, that he is shedding his furs and turning towards the bed naked. She remembers how she used to look away when he undressed, and how she was overwhelmed by his enormous size, his hairiness and, most especially, how she was embarrassed by the sight of his large member; for even when it was not hard and poking straight up, as it was when he wanted her, it seemed unnaturally long and heavy. It had always seemed to her a strange and almost _animalistic_ part of a man, and of marriage, that this _thing_ should needs to become part of her. But this night, she finds that she misses that part of him and their marriage too.

_No, I miss all of him. I want his strong hands and his deep kisses and his warmth and his weight on me. I want his tender words and his gentle caresses. I want our breaths to mingle and our hearts to pound until they nearly burst._

She bites her lip and remembers how it is to feel breathless and tingly and full of yearning, to feel the deliciously dizzying surrender of his hard manhood slipping slowly inside her and making her open and yield to him as he filled her-

She jumps now at a soft knocking at her door. “Sansa? Are you awake? It’s Arya…”

“Come in, Arya,” she calls, a little hoarsely. “What is wrong? Has there been a raven?”

“No,” she begins hesitantly. “I just…I wanted to say I was sorry…about the Greatjon: I didn’t realize…I heard you say that you love him. I didn’t know, Sansa. I thought you were just being the perfect wife, just like you’re the perfect mother.”

“I am far from perfect, Arya,” Sansa assure her humbly and sincerely. _I have been the worst possible failure: a perfect failure._ “You know that well. I- I’m grateful that you have forgiven me…if only for Father’s sake.”

“You didn’t kill Mycah; and telling the truth would not have saved him…or Lady.”

“I know,” Sansa says quietly. “I am happy for you that you have Nymeria. I have dreamed of Lady sometimes too, that we are running through the godswood together.”

Arya comes to sit on the edge of the bed now and looks at her hesitantly. “Sansa, there is something that you do not understand…when I talk about dreaming of Nymeria…I’m not _with_ her, Sansa; I _am_ her. I see through her eyes, I smell what she smells, I taste what she tastes…I even think what she thinks.”

“How is that possible, Arya? Surely you must be imagining it-“

“Bran and Rickon do it too, with their direwolves; I think Robb and Jon may as well but they don’t talk about it or understand it. It’s called _warging_ , Sansa-“

“That is just one of Old Nan’s-“

“No,” Arya tells her firmly. “No, Sansa, it’s true…you _know_ it’s true.”

Somehow, she did know but did not want to believe it; she did not want to know how much she had lost when she lost Lady. She feels the tears behind her eyes, and starts to sniffle. Sometimes, she felt so empty and alone; it would come upon her suddenly, even when she had been happy at Last Hearth. A part of her was missing always, and she could not reach it: it was though it was dead and buried somewhere, and the sadness was unbearable. She had thought it was just missing her family; but now she sees that it is more.

“Lady,” she whispers tearfully.

Arya reaches to put her arms around her. “I’m sorry, Sansa; I’m so sorry.”

Sansa nods now and composes herself. “Thank you, Arya. You will take Nymeria to Karhold with you, won’t you?”

“Yes,” and she smiles a little, “though old Rickard sniffs at her like he smells a fart. Well, he wanted a Stark bride for his heir, so with me he gets Nymeria.”

“Arya! He is your lord’s father; you needs be more respectful.”

She rolls her eyes. “I will…when I get to Karhold.” She lingers a moment longer without speaking, and Sansa senses that she wishes to talk more.

“Sister, what is it? Are you not happy with Lord Harrion?”

Arya drops her eyes again, and looks away now to try to avoid Sansa’s question.

“Tell me,” she insists. “I will never break confidence with you, I swear it.”

“I…it’s just…I don’t know, Sansa: I’m not like you: sewing and singing and wearing pretty gowns. I don’t know how to be married. He…Harrion is kind, and I like him and so does Nymeria, but…” she takes a deep breath, “…it seems like it all happened so fast; and now he is gone and…and I don’t really want to leave Winterfell, Sansa: I never have. No one knows what is happening now, or what will happen in the future.  And…and, oh seven hells: I’m afraid that I will have a child and I don’t want to, not with things the way they are, Sansa. I don’t,” she blurts out finally.

“Oh, Arya, are…are you certain that you are…” She puts her question delicately, and Arya shake her head.

“I will know before long,” Arya mumbles. “Harrion left only a fortnight ago. But mother had a child right away, and so did you; and so I thought…it seems the old gods like to bless us whether we are ready or not,” she jest awkwardly.

Sansa throws back the furs that cover her so that her sister can sleep beside her. Arya smiles gratefully and slips between the linens and rests her dark head on the bolster with a contented sigh.

“Do you really love the Greatjon, Sansa?” she questions her now.

“I do, Arya,” she whispers back. “He is-“

“Bigger than Hodor. Older than Father. Loud. Rough,” Arya enumerates all that Sansa had once thought of her husband.

“Brave. Strong. Loyal to Robb. Northern…” she pauses and smiles to herself in the dark. “Gentle. Kind. He is so wonderful with our children, Arya. Eddard looks up to him; and Serena adores her Da.”

“Did you love him from the start?” Arya asks now, and Sansa understand that Arya needs to hear the truth because she suspects that Arya does not yet love Harrion.

“No,” she admits lightly but with a heavy heart, “he…he frightened me as first, for all the reasons you said; and even though he was kind to me then. And I had not wanted to leave Winterfell either…but I had to, though I did not understand the reason then. You see: there had been talk about me-“

“There still is, Sansa; or there was,” Arya confesses, and Sansa turns her head to look at her. “When servants and smallfolk heard you were coming, they were making bets on who your son would look like,” she explains awkwardly. “Some said Joffrey, others said Renly…some even said the Hound.”

“Did they?” Sansa says dully.

“It’s not true, is it, Sansa: they didn’t hurt you…not that way?” She can hear the anger in Arya’s voice.

“No, sister…not that way.”

“I was beaten,” Arya tells her now, “at Harrenhal. I worked as a servant, in the kitchens and scrubbing floors, and a man beat me. But he died, and then Lord Bolton came and made me a cupbearer. It was a little better.”

“Why did you not tell him who you were? They said you were not found until men from Winterfell came and recognized you. You could have been safe; or even sent back North or to Riverrun.”

“I didn’t trust him, Sansa: he’s…he’s strange somehow: quiet and calm but…dangerous underneath. Besides, I was filthy and my hair was cut short; he probably would not have believed me. He might have had me beaten again.”

Sansa is quiet to think of her sister’s ordeal; and then speaks of her own. “I was beaten as well, Arya: Joffrey had his Kingsguard beat me. Once they tore my dress off in front of the whole court; but he told them to leave my face so I would still be pretty. Lord Tyrion had them stop…”

Arya reaches for her sister’s hand now and holds it in both of hers. “They may have beaten us, Sansa; but they did not _beat_ us: we are here, and they are not. They are all dead now; well, almost all…”

“Who do you mean, Arya?”

“Did the Hound never beat you?” she asks accusingly.

“No,” Sansa replies simply in a soft voice.

“They say you pleaded for his life, Sansa; and so some said your son might be his.  How could you ask mercy for him? He killed Mycah. He didn’t deserve mercy.”

“He killed the boy on the queen’s orders and because of Joffrey’s lies…and mine,” she admits. “He had no choice, Arya: it was his duty. But he _saved_ my life, at great risk to himself and not just one time, but twice; no one ordered him to do that, Arya...but he did.”

“Oh,” her sister relents. “Anyway…Mother put a stop to the talk. She asked how their king would like to hear how they were speaking of his lady sister; or how Lord Umber would like to hear them speaking of his lady wife.”

“I understand why she was so quick to say my children resembled their father then. I expect she believes that it will help put false rumors to rest,” Sansa remarks.

“Servants and commons love their talk, Sansa…especially about pretty high-born maidens who may not _be_ maidens…”

“I was a maiden,” Sansa tells her softly.

A silence follows before Arya speaks again. “Did it…I mean…was it painful for you? Your bedding…I mean.”

Sansa rolls on her side to face her sister. “Yes, but not because he was not gentle. He tried to spare me, but I was young, even though I had flowered. And….and you, Arya?”

Arya rolls towards her now. “The same…I guess. But I was older than you were…and Harrion is not so…so _big_.”

“Hm,” Sansa breathes.

Arya lowers her voice to a raspy whisper. “Is the Greatjon truly… _great_?”

“Go to sleep, Arya,” Sansa tries to tell her sternly; but she cannot keep the smile out of her voice.

“I see,” Arya replies archly.

They sputter with giggles now, and reach out to hug each other.

“I’m so glad to came back safe, Arya; I’m sorry for everything you have suffered. I wish you only happiness now.”

“I’m happy that you’re happy at Last Hearth, Sansa; but I’m glad you’re here now.”

“Thank you,” Sansa whispers, and they settle close together for warmth before sleep takes them both.

 


	32. Chapter 32

Arya sits cross-legged on Sansa’s bed now. She is dressed in breeches and boots and a quilted tunic; all in shades of dull gray and brown. Sansa looks her over as her maid laces her into her wool gown over a corset, shift, underskirts, stockings and smallclothes; and she wonders now if Arya may have the right idea after all. She tries to suppress a giggle now at the thought of returning to her husband wearing the same breeches and undershirts and furs he favours.

“What’s so funny, Sansa? My clothes, I bet: I never could look at pretty as you anyway…”

“Nonsense, Arya: you are a beauty in your own right,” she smiles at her after nodding to her maid that she could leave them. “Does Harrion like to see you in breeches?” she asks.

“He likes to see me out of my breeches, Sansa,” her sister smirks.

“Arya!”

“I only dressed like this around Harrion when I was training,” she concedes.

“Did Father truly find a man to teach you to fight? He told me you were at dancing lessons,” she remembers. “But Mother says you call your training dancing.”

“It’s called water dancing, and it was taught to me by the First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos: Syrio Forel. They killed him…Ser Meryn of the Kingsguard killed him when they came for me. Syrio told me to run away while he fought them off, but he only had a wooden practice sword against plate and steel…”

“I’m sorry, Arya. Can you truly fight though…with a sword and shield?”

“Just with a sword. Jon gave it to me when we left for Kings Landing; I hadn’t really thought I would need it but I did. Harrion laughed at first when he found out…then I put him on his back in the training yard,” she smiles.

Sansa walks over to the bed and puts her hand under Arya’s chin. “And did you put him on his back in your bed?”

“Sansa!” It was Arya’s turn to be shocked now.

Sansa is surprised. “Forgive me, Arya; I thought we were sharing confidences,” she explains, flustered. “I understand if it is too personal.”

Arya blushes to her hairline. “Oh, alright: I did try it…I liked it, but I felt a bit, well, awkward,” she confesses. “I- I saw a lot of soldiers at Harrenhal…wenching, I guess you would say; so I knew a lot more than was proper…and I didn’t want to think of myself being like them so…it was a bit strange…though it was nice really…at times.”

Sansa smiles as she sits on the edge of her bed. “Did _he_ like it when you-“

Arya rolls her eyes but smiles. “Harrion seems to like everything I do…especially abed. Sometimes I think I don’t have to _do_ anything but…but be there,” she jests. “Have…have you done it, you know, different ways?”

Sansa cannot help have a fleeting memory of Lord Jon in the north tower, bending her over a table and snatching up her skirts to take her from behind for the first time. He had once rubbed his member back and forth between her breasts as he pushed them together with his strong hands, groaning and grimacing as he reached the peak of his pleasure. She almost shivers to remember her pleasure then and her pain now; and so she swallows hard before replying.

“Not- not at first…my lord was very careful with me, because I was still young.” She looks down and examines her hands, turning them over and rubbing them together. “I expect he did not want to hurt me or frighten me but…we are closer now,” she says wistfully.

“You miss him, don’t you?” Arya asks quietly and Sansa closes her eyes and nods. “You’ve changed, Sansa,” she remarks kindly. “No more songs of knights and fair maidens with flowers in their hair…you truly care for him, just the way he is.” She sighs. “I want to be like you; I should try to be more wifely and happily married-“

“You will, Arya,” Sansa tells her as she reaches to squeeze her hand encouragingly, “and you don’t need to be like me to be happy; just give it time and…and trust Harrion. Don’t hold back your heart from him and he will love you in turn, sister: how could he not?”

Arya is looking at her levelly with those serious grey eyes, so like their father’s. “Is that what you did, Sansa: did you hold back your heart from the Greatjon?”

Sansa drops her eyes now and feels ashamed. “I- I thought he had married me for an alliance, or for more children; and to take me away from Winterfell…” She pauses when she feels that her voice may catch. “I never thought that he wanted my heart, or even cared about it,” she says as she stands and smoothes her skirts with her hands, her face expressionless, “but I was wrong.”

…..

She crosses through the yard to the godswood and even in the harsh cold of winter she can smell the earthy ground and the sulfur of the hot springs and the scent of the evergreens. She slows her steps and breathes deep until she is before the great ancient weirwood tree. She looks up into its high branches and then down to the stone where her father would sit polishing Ice. It is covered in fallen snow but she drops to her knees before it and suddenly sobs: “Oh, Father: I’m so sorry…for all I have done that was wrong. I wanted so much to be a true lady, and strong like you and Mother; and I have failed so much, not just you but…but I am trying, Father; truly I am,” she whispers through her tears. “I – I have a good husband, just like you wanted for me: brave and gentle and strong, and a Northman. Lord Umber was true and loyal to you and now he is to Robb, his King. We…we have named our son for you, and our daughter for a Stark girl. I want so much for you to be proud of me, Father,” she confesses, “but I find that I am still selfish: my husband must fight for our people and for the North but I want him to be with me and our children. I- I fear I will lose him, just as I lost you…” she trails off quietly before covering her face with her hands.

The godswood is still but for the faint rustling of leaves, and if she does not look out from behind her hands, she can imagine that she is at Last Hearth, and that her husband will come to find her there and he will remind her that she is strong and fierce like her wolf and that she is of the North. She even thinks she can hear his boots crunching over the snow.

“Hodor?”

Sansa looks up with a start now to see Hodor standing over her. He looks sad, and she realizes that he is concerned for her.

“Hodor,” she greets him fondly. “You surprised me just now,” she tells him but he still looks worried. “Forgive my tears, Hodor; but I miss my lord husband.”

“Hodor,” he nods and grins now, and Sansa cannot help grinning back.

“Go bathe, Hodor,” Bran calls from behind them, and Sansa turns to see him in a small sledge with a padded seat in which he sits upright. “I want to talk with Sansa.” He is looking at Sansa with concern as well.

“Are you not cold, Bran?” Sansa asks. He is wrapped in a fur cloak but has no hood, and his auburn hair falls to his collar in thick waves.

He shrugs. “No more than you, and I can’t feel it on my legs anyway.”

“I’m sorry, Bran. I would give anything if the Lannisters had never come to Winterfell.”

“We can’t change what’s past, Sansa,” he tells her after a slight pause.

“No,” she agrees sadly, “we can’t.”

“Mother says you called Last Hearth your home when she welcomed you. She seemed hurt, but I told her that was right: you have lived there for some time now…with your lord husband and your children.”

Sansa nods slightly. “Thank you, Bran, for understanding.”

“Is that why you’re sad…to be away from Lord Umber?”

She nods again and bites her lip.

“But…were you not sad when you were there?”

Sansa looks at him and replies carefully: “I was somewhat sad to miss Winterfell at first, and everyone here. Why- why do you ask?”

Bran seems to hesitate before answering. “I saw you there…in the godswood, Sansa: you looked very unhappy.”

“Bran…” she begins and shakes her head as though she has not heard properly. “You have never been to Last Hearth. You cannot have seen me.”

“I don’t have to be someplace to see, Sansa; I- I have the sight. Old Nan and Maester Luwin call it _greensight_.”

Sansa looks down and tries to hide her smile. “Those are old stories, Bran.” But then she remembers Arya’s tales of warging, and knows that they are true.

“But these stories are true,” he insists calmly. “I have the sight, and can sometimes see through the weirwood trees. I have been learning at Greywater Watch, with Jojen Reed; he has the sight too, and he says mine is very strong. Did – did you not hear me, Sansa? I thought you heard me when I spoke to you.”

She stares at him now, because she does remember. “I thought I heard you but-“

“You were with the Greatjon…forgive me, with Lord Umber, and young Eddard; and you were praying…praying that your family would not be hurt-“

“…by my failings,” she finishes for him. Sansa stands before him and nervously wrings her hands together. “What else do you know, Bran? What else have you seen?“

“I thought I saw you with your husband again…you were in his arms, and he seemed to be comforting you. I wasn’t trying to see; but I did.” He takes a breath and speaks again. “I just want to know that everything is well with you, Sansa. I know that you fell and…and-“

“I lost a child,” she says quietly.

“I’m sorry, Sansa.”

“So am I, Bran: it…” she covers her mouth with her hand now and closes her eyes. “Forgive me. It hurts to speak of it.”

Bran looks at her with his steady gaze, She looks into his deep blue eyes, Tully blue like her own; and she sees how thoughtful and serious he is. She also sees that he wants her to say more. Suddenly, she wants to confide in him: the urge to unburden herself is so overwhelming that it almost hurts.

“Oh, Bran,” she whispers, “I have done such terrible things.”

“Father’s death was not your fault, Sansa.”

She looks at him, both startled and curious. “But how-“

“I saw him…in the godswood of the Red Keep. He was talking with the queen: he told her that he knew about her children, that they weren’t King Robert’s; and that she should run away with them so Robert couldn’t punish them. I think he was afraid they would die like the Targaryen children.”

“But…but then she _knew_ …and so she had him executed; my lord said it was Joffrey-“

“Mayhaps, Sansa; but it doesn’t matter now does it? Father’s gone.”

His words were so final that Sansa knew he was right; but she was still upset to think of her father as being even partly responsible for his own horrible end. Surely he should not have put himself and his family at such risk over Cersei and her bastards; and she cannot help thinking of all those who died in the war that followed.

“I know you’re feeling angry with him right now, Sansa; I was too when I realized what he’d done. But Father was honorable; he could not have done it differently. His honor was not his failing; it was others’ lack of honor.”

“Did you not try to warn him…as you tried to speak to me?”

Bran shakes his head slowly. “I saw it too late; I can see things that have happened years ago, hundreds and even thousands of years ago. I’ve seen the First Men in our godswood, Sansa. Sometimes…I can see in others places too. I’ve seen a man: the man with the burned face who was here at Winterfell-“

“You mean Sandor Clegane?” She is surprised to hear of him; she had thought him gone forever: gone and forgotten.

“He is someplace with a heart tree; or he was. There were children there: both golden haired; they say he was made sworn shield to the Lannister exiles.”

“Are they safe, Bran? Tommen and Myrcella were both sweet children.”

“They were safe, I guess,” he says absently. “He certainly looks like he can keep them safe. Did Sandor Clegane follow the old gods?”

Sansa remembered the night on the roof of Maegor’s Holdfast before the battle for King’s Landing: he had laughed at her. _What gods?_

“Sandor Clegane did not believe in the gods,” she tells him plainly, and she sees him furrow his brow quizzically. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“He looks at the heart tree sometimes; he…he talks to it,” he tells her.

Sansa is nearly dumbfounded. “What does he say?”

Bran looks at her now. “He says: _If you’re there,_ _watch over her._ ”


	33. Chapter 33

_If you’re there, watch over her,_ she repeats to herself, and she wonders if he thinks of her as well. _He watched over me once, and saw that I was delivered safely to King Renly._

“Sansa? Is it you he means? I know that you asked King Renly to spare his life.”

“I…I cannot say, Bran; but he did protect me the night the city fell to Renly. The Lannisters meant to have me killed so that their loss would also be a Northern loss. My head on a spike was to be their last victory over Robb.”

“It would have been their only victory, since Father’s execution: Robb won every battle,” Bran tells her.

Sansa smiles vaguely now. “He had help,” she murmurs.

Bran smiles and demurs. “Yes, he did Sansa. The Greatjon took most of the West for him; while Roose Bolton took the Riverlands and Harrenhal.”

Sansa stares off into the middle distance. “I suppose it should have been some comfort then that Robb did not marry me to Lord Bolton,” she muses, “though I suspect he would not have graciously accepted a bride thought to have been despoiled…”

“As Lord Umber did,” Bran finishes tentatively.

Sansa turns to look at him. “As Lord Umber had _thought_ he did: I was not despoiled, Bran…no matter what they may say. My lord knows that well…” _From our bedding_ , she could say but she does not. “A man knows these things, a man of experience at least.”

Bran turns red; and Sansa is aware now that he does not know such things, though he is nearly a man, and that he possibly never will because of his legs. Her heart hurts for him now.

“They thought the Hound would not protect you unless…”

“Unless I had earned his protection on my back? Is that what they say, Bran? Were that true, Queen Cersei would have earned his protection and allegiance a thousand times over me: she said a woman’s best weapon is between her legs, and that I had best learn how to use it,” she recounts with a sneer of disgust, for Cersei and for herself. “Do you think I could ever bring myself to be like _her_?” Her words are harsh, and she turns away from her brother as her eyes fill with tears of guilt and remorse.

“Then how have you failed your family, Sansa?” he asks gently after a quiet pause. “Your son…both of your children are the Greatjon’s children-“

“They are,” she rounds on him, “they are my husband’s children; but the one I lost….” Sansa catches her breath now and realizes that she has divulged her most horrible secret, and so has trusted him with her life…and Lord Jon’s; but there is no taking it back now. “I- I betrayed him, Bran…and I am so ashamed. I have failed in my most important duty. I-“

“But you love him, Sansa…don’t you? Then why?” She hears his surprise, and his disappointment.

She takes a shuddery breath and tries to explain. “I have not always loved him, Bran: I did not understand why they wed me to him and so…and so I thought it had been for a reward or an alliance and because I did not think anyone wanted me at Winterfell anymore. I- I thought that you all hated me,” she sobs softly now, “because I had wanted to marry Joffrey once, and be his queen; and so you all sent me away to forget me. Gods help me, but I was so lonely and unhappy. Lord Umber was kind but he treated me like a girl, a fragile doll; I would almost have preferred if he had been harsh with me for I knew how to bear that but I could not understand his seemingly kind…indifference: as though I were another servant, meant to run his castle and warm his bed and wear his gifts before guests in his hall…like a palfrey in a shiny new bridle and saddle.”

_…I was to be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked…_

Sansa squeaks in horror and slaps her hands over her ears to recall Cersei’s bitter words about marriage and to think that she should have felt the same way at one time, especially about her husband.

“No,” she whimpers faintly, “no, please: I’m not like her.”

“Like who, Sansa? Cersei?”

Sansa sobs once. “She poisoned me…with her bitterness and her hatred and her scorn: she said I was a stupid fool to want to be loved, and that love would kill me. It did not kill me, but it killed my babe, Bran, because the gods sought to punish me; but I lived and I may never have another child now and so my lord is punished as well. But I was a stupid fool, like she said; and all because I wanted to be _loved_ …but I found I did not even know what that truly meant until it was too late.”

Bran pushes himself closer to her with poles that he sticks in the snow to move his sled. When he reaches her, he throws one down to take her hand tightly.

“You are _not_ like her, Sansa; do you hear me?” he tells her. “Do you think Cersei ever cried tears that she betrayed Robert? Or thought that she deserved the punishment of the gods? And it is not too late: you love him now, don’t you; and not just because you are sorry about…about what you did?”

She shakes her head and dabs at her tears with the pads of her fingertips. “No, I love him because he is kind and good; and because he treats me as a wife now and…and I think that he loves me too,” she sniffles. “Is that selfish?”

“Everyone wants to be loved, Sansa,” Bran tells her sincerely.

She laughs shortly, mirthlessly. “I said that once…and I told myself that I would always believe it. I guess it is not love that I doubt, but myself: I always seem to get it wrong somehow.”

“You do not sound like you have it wrong now, Sansa. Mayhaps you were too young to be wed; or, like Arya, you needed time with your family to remember everything we were taught. You have made a mistake, a very grave mistake that is true; but I know you have a good and loving heart, Sansa. I know that you would not mean to hurt someone that you loved, or even someone that you didn’t. You must have been hurting very badly to have done something that you knew to be wrong.”

Sansa smiles feebly through her tears. “I thought it was romantic…gods be good, I am a stupid fool,” she laments. “And the gods were right to punish me but…but what if they meant for me to die, Bran; and because I did not they will instead take away my lord?” she whispers hoarsely.

“We can’t know what the gods will do, Sansa; we can only do what is right…and hope that they understand. Mayhaps the gods mean for you to live a long life to make it up to your husband,” he proposes.

“That would not be a punishment, Bran; that would be all my prayers answered,” she says softly.

“Then do that, Sansa; and mayhaps the gods will favour you this time. We all make mistakes, and we must live with them. Father did when he lied about Jon: he hurt mother to protect Lyanna’s boy. That was brave, though it was not easy. You will needs be brave and keep your secret all your life, Sansa: would it not be more hurtful and dangerous if your lord knew?”

Sansa looked up to the heart tree now. “It would,” she answered dully.

“Then protect those that you love, Sansa, and live with your mistake, and your lie. You were wrong; but now you can make it right. Father never got that chance,” he tells her bluntly.

Sansa looks at him now. “You have always been the sweetest boy in the world, Bran; but you are no longer a boy, and you have become wiser than your years even. I want to do what is right, and I pray that the gods will forgive me in time.” She bites her lip and blinks nervously. “Do…do you hate me, Bran? I will understand-“

“I don’t hate you, Sansa; I never could.” He looks down at his legs now and tires to smile bravely. “We have all suffered because of everything that happened; and we all have out burdens because of it: Robb tries to be a good king and a good husband, but it is demanding, even more than having to be Lord of Winterfell; and his heart is elsewhere. Arya strides about in breeches with a sword at her hip because it makes her think that no one can hurt her again. And Rickon…Rickon will not speak of Father: it may be that he does not remember him, but he is hurt and angry and wild inside. It comes out through Shaggydog mostly but sometimes Rickon can be dangerous, even to himself.”

“I am sorry that I did not see him, or Robb, before they went to White Harbor to sail for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, where my lord met them. I want Robb to know that I am happy now; though he may not have wanted to see me.”

“Of course he would. Sansa. I see your burden it that you no longer trust that those you love will love you back, especially if you are not some perfect girl you heard about in songs. But you’re wrong: we all love you, Sansa.”

Sansa smiles weakly; she feels tired from her confession but her heart is full because of his words.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “And you, Bran,” Sansa reaches her hand to touch is knee though she knows that he cannot feel it. “What of your burden? Are you not angry? I wish I knew how to help you, if I could. Would you tell me, Bran, if I could help you?”

He sighs resignedly. “I used to be angry, and hurt, and ashamed; sometimes I still am when I cannot do the things I want, the things I did as a boy. But I can do other things, Sansa; Maester Luwin has helped me to learn a lot; and so has Jojen Reed. Mayhaps I’ll forge a chain at the Citadel someday, or I’ll write all of Old Nan’s stories into a book…except…they weren’t all just stories, were they? The worst ones are true now,” he looks at her and his eyes are shadowed.

Sansa’s heart tightens and her breathing seems to stop for a moment. All of her tales of woe and the troubles that had plagued her family seem to matter little when faced with another Long Night. Then she has a thought.

“Can you see, Bran: beyond the Wall? They have weirwoods there, don’t they? That wildling woman, Osha, says that the old gods are the only gods beyond the wall,” she asks desperately.

Bran shakes his head doubtfully. “I’ve tried, Sansa, I’ve tried to see beyond the Wall…but…” he seems reluctant to speak.

“What is it, Bran? Tell me, please.”

“When I try to look…all I see is ice, Sansa: ice and fire.”

“Mother!”

Sansa turns now to see her son approaching the heart tree with Arya striding behind him her sword in a belt slung around her slim hips.

“You said we’d pray together, Mother,” he chides her, “like Father taught me.”

“I was speaking with your Uncle Bran, Eddard; I have not prayed for your Father yet because I was waiting for you. Did you like your training with your Aunt Arya?” she asks him now.

“Aunt Arya let me swing Needle; but I have to learn Water Dancing, she said. I have to learn to be quiet as a shadow and swift like a…”

“Swift like a deer,” Arya finishes for him. “And what else did I teach you, Eddard?”

“Fear cuts deeper than swords,” he recites. “Is that true, Mother? Father and Smalljon fight without dancing; and they don’t fear anything!”

Sansa eye’s meet those of her brother and sister. Her son does not fully realize what kind of war the men of the North are fighting. No army has fought the Others for eight thousand years, and no one is sure how they won. Old Nan’s stories told them that the children of the forest had helped the First Men defeat the White Walkers, but the children of the forest are all gone now.

Sansa holds her hand out to her son now. “Let us pray for them anyway, Eddard. Let us all pray for the old gods to watch over them: Father, and your brothers, and King Robb and Uncle Rickon, and Lord Harrion who is your Aunt Arya’s lord husband, and the Lord Commander and all the men of the Night’s Watch.”

Arya kneels now behind her sister and young Eddard who turns to look at her now. “I’m going to pray for them all not to die,” he tells her.

“ _Valar morghulis_ ,” Arya intones with a gruff softness like a prayer.

“What is that?” Sansa asks her.

“It’s High Valerian. It means: all men must die.” She holds her sisters stricken gaze.

“Must you say that before Eddard?” Sansa reaches a protective arm around her son. “He is so young to know such things.”

“So were we, Sansa,” Bran tells her levelly.

“I’m not afraid, Mother,” her son tells her bravely. “Father will come back…just like Aunt Arya’s wolf.”

Sansa looks down on his proud face, full of love and admiration for his father; and she smiles gently for him.

_Yes, let him come back like Nymeria came back; and not like Lady came back._

 


	34. Chapter 34

“Aunt Arya.”

“ _Anawya_ ,” Serena repeats happily.

“Old Nan has said that they speak the Old Tongue in the Far North,” Arya mocks.

“Oh hush, she needs learn,” Sansa scolds her sister. “Aun- _t_ _A_ -ry- _a,_ ” she says again to her daughter.

“ _An-awy-a_ ,” Serena repeats and giggles.

“Gods be true, Sansa: she can’t even say her own name properly,” Arya mutters. “What is your name, pretty little girl?” she questions her niece with a big smile.

“ _S’wena_ ,” she giggles again.

“See?” Arya says flatly and then lifts Serena up. She is still dressed in her breeches with her slim sword at her hip.

“ _Fyway_ ,” Serena says now, and Arya looks at her, puzzled.

“Yes, my little bird,” Sansa exults. “Fly away!”

“ _Hee,_ ” Serena reached her arms out to her mother now and Sansa takes her from Arya, who looks at them curiously.

“I see the resemblance now, like Mother says: the shape of her face and your mouth…but the rest must be the Greatjon. Were his daughters pretty? I don’t remember them.”

Sansa thinks. “More handsome than pretty, I would say. They were tall, with good teeth and clear skin; and they were lively and kind.”

“Serena will be pretty…” Arya says to her.

“ _Pit-ty,_ ” Serena repeats.

“…if she looks like her Mama,” she finishes. “Though you don’t want her too pretty up there, I imagine…with wildlings about. Another Umber girl was taken not so long ago,” Arya remarks innocently.

“Before you and I were born, Arya,” Sansa counters somberly, “so it was quite some time ago now.”

“Do they talk about her?” Arya asks in a hushed voice.

“Never,” Sansa lies flatly. “I expect it is too painful,” she adds after a pause.

Arya pauses herself and then smirks. “If she were pretty…then it is just the sort of thing you once would have believed romantic: to be carried off by a-“

“There is nothing romantic about losing someone you love, Arya,” Sansa cuts her off sharply. “My lord’s uncle lost his wife and his sons and then his only daughter. He is a deeply unhappy man,” she says tightly.

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” Arya says quickly. “I forget that these aren’t just stories to you anymore: you’re an Umber now.”

“Forgive me, Arya,” she excuses herself gently now as she holds her daughter tighter. “I fear I miss them all very much, and it has made me sensitive to talk.”

Arya nods awkwardly and glances over to Berena who is ready for her youngest charge to go to bed in the nursery at Winterfell. Sansa has already changed into her bedgown and fur robe, so that her maid could leave for the winter town with other servants to the Smoking Log. She is beginning to suspect that she will needs find a new maid for her return to Last Hearth as the girl is being courted by a cooper and a baker both.

“That were a kind thing to say about old Mors, milady,” Berena tells Sansa. ”You understand his anger, and why he drinks so much then?”

“Did he not drink before?” She is not certain which loss made him so bitter.

“Umber men have always liked their ale; but he liked and needed it more and more over the years, milady; though I expect it started with his wife. They say he loved her truly; though she’d been gone when I got there. And his girl was pretty enough; they say she’d the look of her mother. Lost to the bloody bed, that one.”

“Poor man,” Sansa murmurs.

“Poor man? Poor woman’s more like it,” Arya states firmly and crosses her arms tightly over her chest.

Both of the other women are quiet and Sansa cradles her sleepy daughter before speaking.

“Arya?” she prompts her softly.

“I don’t know,” her sister mutters. “I was never…on time, like it’s supposed to be…so I can’t be sure yet,” she sounds surly and defensive and so Sansa knows that she is worried about her moon-blood not coming.

“Berena is also a midwife, Arya: she can-“

“No,” Arya blurts, “not yet,” she relents. “Please, just let me find out on my own if this is how it is going to be. I-“ She purses her lips and blinks and Sansa wonders if she is trying not to cry. “Just leave me be…please,” Arya whispers.

“If you like, milady,” Berena says unconcernedly.

“Talk about something else,” Arya commands them. “What about the other uncle? He drinks too, Bran said: they were both at Winterfell for the Harvest feast when Robb was fighting,” she asks.

“Hother,” Sansa tells her his name.

“Whoresbane,” Arya counters rudely.

“He’s not addressed as such at Last Hearth,” Sansa corrects her, as is proper; though she has overheard some men in the garrison use the term behind his back.

“Was the whore really a man? Did he know that before he tried to rob him?” Arya taunts her and Berena with the old story of Hother’s time at the Citadel in Oldtown and how he earned his crude moniker.

“Arya,” Sansa warns her; but Berena interrupts smoothly.

“Aye, that’d be another unhappy man, milady: bad enough to lose a love; but imagine never having one? ‘Tis a shame to live like that,” she shakes her head sadly.

“Like what?” Arya asks and when she looks to Sansa, her sister ducks her head.

“You know then, milady?” Berena asks Sansa.

Sansa looks up at her now. “I…I have overheard…” she replies softly and then shrugs.

“Overheard what?” Arya persists. “Does he love men?” she laughs incredulously. “I’ve heard of that,” she boasts.

Sansa turns to her. “I do not think it is an easy life, Arya,” Sansa tells her seriously, “they have to keep it hidden or…or others mock them, or hurt them.” She thinks of the whisperings and sly remarks about Ser Loras and King Renly when she was still in Kings Landing; and the crude names soldiers called the big woman from Tarth who served on Renly’s Rainbow Guard.

“I thought it only happened in the South,” Arya states, “in the Reach…and Dorne; not here.”

“That’s enough, Arya,” Sansa chides her though not harshly. “Be kind…everyone wants to be loved,” she cannot help saying wistfully. Though her lord’s uncle has spoken crudely of her, Sansa thinks it is because he does not know love himself.

A loud thumping and the creak of wooden floorboards can be heard in the hallway, and they all turn their heads to the door when Hodor appears.

“Hodor!” he implores them.

“ _H’dor_ ,” Serena smiles sleepily.

“Hodor,” Hodor whispers back to her with a grin.

“What’s wrong, Hodor?” Arya asks. “Is it Bran?”

“Hodor,” he nods.

“I’ll go,” Arya says as she springs from the window seat where she had folded herself.

“I will follow,” Sansa offers as she hands her daughter to Berena and kisses her child’s head.

“He must have had another nightmare,” Arya says off-handedly to Sansa over her shoulder.

“But it is early yet; has he to bed already?” she asks.

“Bran often retires early so he can wake at night and look at the stars with Maester Luwin’s far-eye,” she explains. “I have gone with him; it can be quite beautiful on a clear night like this night.”

When they arrive at Bran’s room, he is hanging onto a bar above his bed and breathing heavily. One look at his pale face tells Sansa that he woke in a sweat. His eyes meet hers now and she sees that he is afraid.

“What is it, Bran?” she asks tremulously. “Did you see beyond the Wall?”

He shakes his head now and swallows before finding his voice. “Winterfell,” he whispers hoarsely, “water flooding through the gate and streaming through the halls where…where it turned to blood,” he tells them.

Sansa and Arya exchange glances of foreboding.

“We would have ample warning before any threat came to Winterfell from beyond the Wall, Bran,” Arya assures him.

“Unless he dreamt of a message from beyond the Wall,” Sansa tells her sadly.

“Dark wings, dark words,” Arya said after an uncomfortable pause, “but ravens don’t ride on a wave.”

“And wights do not bleed, nor do the Others,” Sansa mourns. “It would needs be the blood of a man, or men.”

“Can you remember anything else, Bran?”

Bran lifts his eyes to her. “A man…a man screaming, out of a wide open mouth,” he tells them reluctantly.

“How horrible for you, Bran,” Sansa commiserates. “But…but could it just be a- a dream; or is it one of your green dreams?”

“It…it was real,” he says softly.

“Bran,” comes the voice of the maester from the doorway, “you must not let such notions trouble you. Have I not told you such magic does not exist?”

“You told me the White Walkers were all dead,” Bran counters to him, “you even said they may not have existed at all. How can you be sure about magic and greenseeing now?”

“I have dreamed many things in my life, Bran, and few of them came true.”

“I saw Father die,” Bran insists, “and so did Rickon. You don’t have the sight, or a direwolf.”

“You speak of warging again,” Maester Luwin said with patient skepticism.

“We have all of us felt it,” Arya tells him.

The master looks to Sansa now, and she drops her eyes.

“Surely you do not believe this, Sansa?”

She looks at her folded hands. “I have not felt what the others have, Maester Luwin; but I have felt…an emptiness, for which I cannot account. I know it’s Lady; I cannot explain why…it is something I feel very strongly.”

“Sansa, sweet girl: you lost a child. Many women have spoken of what you feel now,” he says sympathetically.

She shakes her head vigorously, even as her eyes fill with tears. “No,” she insists, “I have felt it for years, whether I am happy or sad…it is there-“

“It’s here!” Bran exclaims suddenly. “It’s here!”

All at once shouting can be heard from the yard, and then the clash of steel. They hear horses whiny and running footsteps echoing within the castle.

“Hide,” Maester Luwin tells them. “I’ll stay with Hodor and Bran; we’ll get him to safety.”

Sansa rushes to the door.

“Sansa!” Arya calls.

“My children!” she cries as she runs into the hallway and down the winding stairs. Once she reaches the nursery, it is deserted. She cries out in dismay. In the darkness, she sees the blanket from Serena’s bed is gone. “Gods of my father: protect my children,” she whispers as she turns to leave and search for them.

But the doorway is barred by a shadowy figure is a dark cloak. Sansa gasps suddenly and the man steps forward into the light thrown by the torch on the wall.

“Lady Umber,” Theon Greyjoy greets her smugly. His sword is in his gloved hand, and he looks her over in her fur robe and bedgown. “You looks very inviting, Sansa; but you’ll need to go and dress warmly: you and your children. You’ll be coming with me to Pyke.”


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE IS NO RAPE IN THIS STORY [that is a promise; not a spoiler]

Sansa stares in astonishment at Theon in the flickering torchlight and wonders if he has gone mad to risk attacking Winterfell, and to think that he could simply abduct her. King Robb, her lord husband and all of House Umber, and possibly all of the North will demand his head. She thinks his sister Queen Asha cannot have countenanced such a rash act. She also wonders when and how Theon came to hate her so very much.

“I will not go anywhere with you, Theon,” she tells him levelly.

“You will, Sansa; and your children. Get your nurse and get them ready,” he stalks towards her and takes her arm. “Go on.”

“You are not taking me and you are certainly not taking my children,” she repeats stubbornly. “You will never get out the gates, Theon.”

“My men are seeing to the gates, and to the green boys and old men your king left behind to protect you. Do you think I don’t know everyone who could protect you is gone? There’s not a decent, well-manned garrison between here and the Stony Shore. We’ll sail to Pyke from there,” he says moving to push her out the nursery door.

“Theon, let go of me,” she orders. “My lord will _kill_ you for laying hands on me.”

“The Greatjon’s north of the Wall with the rest of your Northmen, Sansa; and even if he does return you’ll be long gone from here…and you’ll be mine. He won’t want you back; and he won’t come after me when I have his children,” he tells her smugly. “Mayhaps I’ll send them back to him when you’ve given me a son.”

“A bastard,” Sansa counters firmly. “I am already wed.”

“Now you’ll be a salt wife…until your brother decrees we be wed properly. I know your family will do anything to salvage your reputation and theirs.”

“Nothing can make what you are doing right, Theon; I’ll never go with you,” she hisses and twists to pull away from him. She knows that the captain of the guardsmen Hallis Mollen and the castellan Ser Rodrik must be fighting somewhere in the castle; and the men who work in the armory and the forge or even the kennels will stop him if he tries to leave with her and so she stalls him so that the others may hide and the soldiers and servants have time to find her and Theon. But his next words show that he is not to be so easily flouted.

“You will come with me willingly or I’ll give Umber’s boy to the Drowned God, Sansa,” Theon threatens.

“Have you found your lady then, m’lord?”

“I have,” Theon tells a man who steps out of the shadows in the hallway now. “We’ll needs gather her children and go quickly; you and the others can do what you want with the castle when I’m gone,” he says.

Sansa sees the man is in the garb of a commons though he has a fine sword; but it is his face that is most disturbing. His skin is pale and blotchy, and he has eyes that are pale and cold and small. But it is his mouth that frightens her most: it is small but fleshy and wormy, and it reminds her of Joffrey. He has dark hair though, and a sloped posture and soft body beneath his dirty and tattered clothes. Everything about him makes Sansa want to shiver with disgust.

Theon grips her arm tighter now. “Not all Northmen love your king, Sansa. It wasn’t so hard to find men who would turn against him. All I want from this place is you; the others can have the castle.”

“Why take her babes then, m’lord? They’ll only slow you down,” the man asks Theon. “Put them on spikes for her king and her lord husband to see,” he grins malevolently at Sansa, who gasps and looks to Theon.

Theon looks her over assuredly. “I’ll needs to keep this wolf in line. She’ll do as I say if I have her brats. And Umber won’t follow either if he thinks I’ll hurt them,” he brags. “The old man’ll never dare set foot on Pyke.” He steps closer to Sansa and leers as he looks down the body. “Robb was supposed to give you to _me_ ,” he tells her angrily. “Instead he gave you to the Greatjon. You should have had better than an old man, Sansa…and now you will.” He turns his head to the ugly man. “You can have her sister…if you want her,” he says dismissively, “or their mother, or the queen.”

“And why should I settle for what you won’t have?” the man sneers dangerously now. “I’ve decided I like _your_ wolf-woman. She’s not going to Pyke with you; she’s coming hunting with me.”

Without warning, the man lunges at Theon with his sword, running him through to the hilt and twisting the blade. Sansa screams and her hands fly to her face when Theon lets go of her. His eyes are wide with shock and his breath catches and releases slowly as he sinks to his knees and falls over with a soft thud. As Sansa stares down at him, blood seeps out of his wound and spreads over the wooden floor.

“You… _bastard_ ,” Theon breathes his last at her feet as she shakes from shock.

The ugly man thrusts his blade savagely into Theon again with a hard grunt and pulls it back. He turns to Sansa with a hungry smile.

“Never call me that,” he commands her, “or I will give you to my men and watch as you scream,” he advances on her now as she shrinks back to the wall, “then I’ll slowly peel your skin off, inch by inch, and feed you to my dogs.”

“Who- who are you?”

“Your new lord!” he tells her with a hard glint in his pale eyes. He looks down to Theon in mock surprise. “Why? Oh, did you want him?” He laughs. “Well, it’s too late now,” he considers and shakes his head. “Just-missed Greyjoy, they called him. He only wanted to fuck you; and he just missed his chance, didn’t he?” He kicks Theon’s body hard and Sansa jumps.

“Oh! Don’t be scared, my lady…not yet. You see, when I said we were going hunting,” he leans in closer to her, “I meant that I am going to hunt…and you are going to be hunted. You may even get away; some have, but I don’t think I’d give up on you so easily. I’ve never hunted a wolf before…a hope you’re good sport.”

He flinches violently all of a sudden and his strange eyes go wide, and he looks down and both he and Sansa see the glint of steel sticking out his knee. When it pulls back he nearly buckles and he turns with his blade raised. Sansa sees a flash of auburn hair behind him in the torchlight and she instinctively grabs the man’s sword arm with both her hands.

“No!” she cries, but the ugly man doubles over suddenly with a shrill screams and drops his sword to the floor where it clatters against the wood boards. Sansa brings her foot down on it, hard; and she sees young Eddard before the ugly man who has sunk to his knees. The man holds his hands to his groin and there is dark blood pooling beneath him. In her son’s hands is a large dagger, red to the hilt. He glares hard at the ugly man and his little face is fierce and angry.

“Eddard!” she breathes in astonishment.

“He- he’s just a boy,” the ugly man seems to laugh weakly.

“I’m an _Umber_!” her son shouts as he takes a step and thrusts the dagger with both hands up into the man’s neck with a high-pitched grunt. He holds firmly for a long moment before pulling back; there is a gurgle and a soft hiss of air and blood spurts onto the boy’s face and hands.

Sansa stifles a shriek and steps forward to grab her son and pull him out of the way as the ugly man half-turns and tilts over to fall to the floor and die. His strange eyes stare emptily up at the ceiling.

“Eddard, Eddard,” she whispers fervently, “are you hurt? Let me look at you.”

His little face and eyes are hard as she looks at him but the all at once he trembles and is a boy again. His big eyes look up at hers pleadingly and trustingly.

“Did he hurt you, Mother? I heard you scream and so I came to help you. I promised Father I would,” he tells her.

Sansa looks wide-eyed at the bloodied dagger in his hands and remember suddenly: _his gift; it was a secret between them._

Before she can speak again, she hears light, quick steps scuffing against the floor and turns.

“Arya,” she breathes in relief. Her sister is holding her sword Needle and Sansa can see that both she and the blade are bloodied. She stops before the bodies on the floor.

“Theon,” she pronounces angrily as she recognizes him, “and who’s the other?”

Sansa shakes her head, “I don’t know. I-“

Arya sees Eddard now and her eyes widen slightly. “Did you kill them, Eddard?”

“There’s not time for that, Arya,” Sansa tells her urgently. “Bring me a sword,” she nods towards the ones on the floor as she braces herself with a hand on the wall and stands shakily.

When Arya just stares at her, Sansa explains: “We needs take their heads.”

…….

They hurry through the Keep breathing hard, each with their grisly burden in one hand and a sword in the other. Their footsteps creak along the deserted hallways and the heavy sword Sansa carries keeps clanking and throwing sparks when she scratches the tip along the stone wall as she tries to run in her heavy fur robe, now with the hem soaked from the pools of blood. When they reach the bridge to the armory, Arya moves quickly and tosses the head of the ugly man into the yard below where there are still men fighting. Some of them see it and stop and turn to look around and behind them. Arya then holds aloft a torch she has snatched from the wall.

“Here is your leader!” she shouts, and Sansa holds out Theon Greyjoy’s head by the hair and his sword in her other hand. “They were killed by women! Throw down your weapons and we’ll show mercy; fight on and you’ll die by the she-wolves of Winterfell!”

All of the men look up to them now, and one drops his weapon; another is run through by the guardsman Alebelly when he takes too long to decide. Below them, Bran’s direwolf Summer runs out of the Keep and into the yard followed by Ser Rodrik and another soldier with their swords drawn. When Ser Rodrik looks up to the bridge, they see his face is as bloodied as his sword. The last of the men attacking Winterfell drop their weapons when they see the tremendous direwolf with its muzzle dripping fresh blood.

“Put them in irons,” Arya calls, “and take them to cells.”

Ser Rodrik looks up to them now with wide eyes but then nods respectfully.

“It will be done, my lady…my ladies,” Hallis Mollen calls to them.

Arya continues to stand overlooking the yard with a fierce expression but Sansa can feel herself begin to shake again.

“Can I put it down now, Arya?” she whispers, “I feel that I may be sick.” The stench of blood had first reminded her of Sandor Clegane on the night Kings Landing fell, and she had taken strength from that; but now the sickly-sweet stink was too much, and she feared that she might vomit.

“Drop it then,” Arya replies distractedly, “but don’t let them see you look weak.”

“But they’re being led away now. Arya, I needs find Serena and her nurse…and Mother-“

“They’re safe and well hidden, Sansa,” Arya tells her without turning to her. “Robb had fashioned a hiding place for Bran since he cannot run or fight, even with Summer at his side. Roslin and the girls and Serena are there as well with their nurses. I made sure once you left Bran’s room.”

“Mother?” Sansa asks her.

Arya looks at her now. “…has a dagger of her own: Ser Rodrik taught her to use it.”

Sansa is speechless, and the only sounds now come from the men in the yard and the burning of Arya’s torch.

“Mother? Is it safe now?”

Sansa turns to the dark archway of the bridge leading to the Keep where young Eddard stands, still holding his dagger.

“Yes, Eddard, I think so; but stay with me and Aunt Arya until we are certain. Ser Rodrik and the guardsmen’s captain will have the soldiers come to tell us.” She looks carefully at him now as he walks towards her and takes his face in her bloodied hands. “Are you certain that you are not hurt? I cannot tell with all the blood,” she worries.

“You’re all bloody too,” he tells her dully, and she looks down the front of her robe and sees that he is right. Suddenly she is very cold and she pulls her son to her to hold him. _My sweet boy killed a man._

“You did well, Eddard,” Arya tells him firmly.

“Yes, Eddard: your father will be so proud,” Sansa tells him, though almost tearfully, “as I am; but I am concerned as well. We must keep what you did a secret for now.”

“Why?” Arya asks.

“We don’t know who these men are but for Theon; I don’t want anyone taking their vengeance on my son,” Sansa tells her cautiously, and she looks the boy in his eyes again. “Eddard, we will tell your father when we see him; but not before. Do you understand?”

Eddard looks disappointed but he nods to her. “Yes, Mother.”

“You were so very brave, my boy,” she tells him shakily. “I never saw or heard you until that man turned,” Sansa tells him and Arya.

“Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow,” Arya recites at him proudly.

Eddard looks to her and then to Theon’s head which lays near Sansa’s feet and then back to his aunt.

“ _Valar Morghulis,_ ” he recites back to her.


	36. Chapter 36

“His own man killed him?” Queen Roslin is puzzled.

“A turncloak killed by another turncloak seems a fair justice, my queen,” Ser Rodrik replies to her. “Theon killed a man at the Hunter’s Gate to let these men in, then they made their way to the Battlements gate between the walls to bypass the kennels. Strangers would have set all the dogs to barking and raised the alarm sooner. Theon knows the castle well: he knew the best way in…and he might have succeeded in causing more deaths and damage without our She-Wolves of Winterfell,” he nods admiringly at Arya and Sansa.

 “But why?” Lady Catelyn asks now, shaking her head. “I cannot imagine what Theon thought he could possibly accomplish: do you?” she turns to Sansa.

“I- I’m not certain, Mother,” Sansa says shakily, “Th-theon said he wanted to take me to Pyke but…but the other one said that-“ She stops now and furrows her brow in strained disbelief

“He said what, Sansa?” Arya prompts her.

“Your sister has doubtless had quite a shock, Arya; let her tell it in her own time and in her own way,” Maester Luwin advises her quietly and then puts a hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “Would you like them you bring you some wine, my lady?”

Sansa tries to force a tremulous smile; she can never remember the maester of Winterfell addressing her other than by her first name and she is grateful for his calm courtesy this night.

“I- thank you; but no,” she takes a deep breath. “The other man said that he wanted me f-for himself, and that he…he was going to hunt me like a wolf…for sport,” she finishes and cannot bring herself to look at anyone.

“Gods be good, my lady,” Ser Rodrik exclaims, “by his words he must be Bolton’s bastard, Ramsay Snow. Only he is known for such horrible acts.”

“I thought you had killed him,” Arya counters.

“No, milady; it was his servant: they called him Reek. The bastard had dressed him in his garb so that I thought I was him but…well, the stench was proof enough that he wasn’t but also Lady Hornwood’s people who saw the body said that he was not Ramsay Snow. No one had seen him for years now…at least none that lived or would admit to it.”

“Has Roose Bolton been protecting him all this time, do you think?” Catelyn questions.

“I should think that is unlikely, milady, now that he has legitimate heirs with his Frey wife. They say the bastard killed his own half-brother and the lord’s heir, Domeric; gods only know what he would have done to his father’s small children…”

“And to Sansa,” she finishes angrily, and Queen Roslin and the nurses gasp.

They have all gathered in the solar after the soldiers had determined that all of Theon’s men had surrendered or had been killed. There had been no more than twenty; and while some had worn the badge of House Bolton beneath their cloaks, most had no sigil and so were believed to be sellswords of dubious character and origins. They are mostly women in the room now and they are dressed in robes and with braided hair, save for Arya. Bran is with them, with Hodor and Maester Luwin; and Hallis Mollen and Ser Rodrik Cassel. The fire has been built up and tea has been brought but no one drinks save for Berena.

“Theon said all that he wanted was you?” Arya questions Sansa.

“Yes, Arya,” Sansa replies impatiently, “I have said so already.” Sansa feels her head is bursting; she still feels nauseous, and she is terribly embarrassed. “I am sorry,” she finally says tearfully, “I am sorry if I was the cause of all this but-“

“Sansa,” Roslin says quickly and hurries to kneel before her and take her hands in hers, “no one blames you for what happened; please do not blame yourself. The fault was Theon’s entirely. Robb had told me that he offered to marry you even though-“ She stops speaking suddenly.

Sansa sniffles and dabs under her eyes and then says: “My lord believed that Theon started the terrible rumours about me, so that Robb would have no choice but to wed me to him and give him lands and a castle here in the North; and Theon said if he took me as a salt wife that Robb would somehow legitimize our…our _union_ to save House Stark’s reputation and mine.”

“Nonsense!” Maester Luwin declares loudly. “Did he truly think King Robb would set aside your marriage to Lord Umber? Your lord is his most loyal bannerman and the most fearsome warrior in the entire North.. Why, Lord Umber himself would never accept such an insult; nor could he to keep face with his own people.”

“He…he meant to take my children with us, and…and hold them hostage; and he claimed that my lord would no longer want me,” Sansa tells them haltingly. “He told the man that he and the others could do whatever they wanted with the castle and…and those inside.” She does not tell them that Theon said they could have all of the women in the solar with her now.

“Thank the gods Arya came along when she did then,” Roslin comments.

Sansa and Arya exchange glances and Ser Rodrik walks to the doorway to ascertain that they are unheard by anyone else.

“Come here, Eddard,” Sansa holds out her arms to her son who is sitting in Berena’s lap. When he slides down and walks to her, she kisses his forehead reverently. “You were so very brave, my son; I am grateful to you for what you did but I am most grateful that you were not hurt. Was the dagger your father’s gift then?”

“Yes, Mother,” he replies and clutches his little hands together. “Will bad men come to kill me now?”

“No harm will ever come to you in Winterfell, Lord Eddard,” Hallis Mollen assures him, “and no one outside this room will ever know. Your lord father will protect you at Last Hearth.”

“We must all keep this secret until we can tell my lord,” Sansa appeals to them all.

They all murmur their agreement with her, and even Hodor nods.

“Hodor,” he says solemnly to young Eddard.

“Bran?” Sansa questions him gently now. He has been sitting in a corner and not speaking.

“Of course, Sansa,” he says absently.

“I was asking if you are well, Bran. Forgive me but you seem very far away right now.”

He turns his face to her. “Who will take their heads?” he asks suddenly. “I can pass sentence…but I can’t swing a sword. Neither can Queen Roslin. Our way is the old way, remember?”

“We can leave it for Robb to decide,” Roslin answers. “The cells will hold them until he returns, won’t they?”

“They will, my queen,” Ser Rodrik tells her firmly.

“Is that truly what is troubling you, Bran?”

He is silent a long moment and Sansa wonders if she should have questioned him when everyone is still so overwrought. But he drops his eyes now and speaks sadly.

“I dreamt this would happen, but I didn’t understand it,” he says in frustration. “And Jojen told me that even if I have clear dreams; I can’t ever change what will happen. I don’t understand why I have this…this _ability_ …when I can’t use it to help anyone, not even myself or my family. How is it a gift if I can’t use it?”

“How can you be sure this was your dream if you did not understand it, Bran?” Maester Luwin asks somewhat patronizingly.

“The wave that came to Winterfell: the Ironborn are of the sea,” he explains. “The water turned to blood in the halls,” he looks towards the door where servants can be heard now scrubbing and cleaning the pools and streaks of blood left by the dead and injured. “And the wide open mouth of the screaming man is the flayed man of the Bolton’s sigil.”

“That man screamed when I stuck my dagger in him,” Eddard tells him.

“Did your father teach you, Eddard?” Sansa asks him warmly, for she cannot help but think that it was partly her husband who saved her by teaching their son. But she is also upset that her small boy should have taken such a risk with his own life.

“Yes,” he tells her, “Father, and Smalljon…and Aunt Arya. Father told me where and how to stick the dagger, and Smalljon made me practice and Aunt Arya taught me to be quick and silent.”

“Your father’d be right proud of you, m’lord Eddard ,” Hallis Mollen tells the boy, “And your lord grandfather as well. He was a brave man, Lord Eddard Stark,” he nods firmly.

“My lord husband would never have given a child a dagger, much less taught how him to use it,” Catelyn says tightly. “Gods be good, the boy could have been killed.”

“Father said it was for the White Walkers, my lady,” Eddard tells her contritely, “But I heard Mother scream, and so I had to help her.”

“Valyrian steel, my lady,” Hallis Mollen tells Catelyn now, nodding to the dagger at Berena’s feet. “No wonder the boy could wield it so easily: nothing cuts like Valyrian steel.”

“Well the last time there was a Valyrian Steel dagger in this castle, someone tried to kill Bran with it-“

“Mother,” Sansa cuts her off sharply. “My son is upset enough; so I will thank you not to question his father’s judgement or his actions. I was and still am frightened for him that he should have needed to do such a thing, but let us put the blame where it rightly belongs…and not on my lord husband.”

The solar is completely silent, and Catelyn stares down at her daughter for some time before replying.

“Forgive me,” she says though her countenance is brittle. “You did well to protect your mother, Eddard; I only worried that you might have been hurt.”

“I should take him to wash up proper, milady,” Berena offers now. “Maybe he’d like to sleep with company in the nursery tonight.”

“If they will bring pallets, I would like you and the children to sleep in my room tonight, Berena.”

“Very well, milady. Come along young Eddard,” she tells her charge, “let’s get you clean again.”

As they leave, Roslin turns to Sansa. “I think I’d like to do the same with my daughters tonight, Sansa; I don’t want them out of my sight.”

“Nor I,” Sansa admits, “though I am concerned now that Eddard should suffer nightmares. He is too proud, even for a boy, to sleep in the nursery with only girls for company.”

“He is Lord Umber’s son through and through, milady,” Ser Rodrik affirms with a nod and a smile to her.

Sansa smiles back softly. “Yes, he is…I only pray that my lord should come through his battles unhurt.”

“We can all pray for his safety and that of King Robb and all Northmen in the godswood tomorrow; but right now, I think it best we all get some sleep,” Catelyn advises.

“I fear I shall not sleep restfully this night, and for many nights to come,” Sansa laments tiredly, “and you, Arya?” She looks to her sister now but Arya is not listening.

“Arya?’ her mother intones.

“What?” she replies sharply.

“Your sister asked if you would sleep well tonight,” Catelyn tells her, “and by your tone, I would suggest you get plenty of sleep before you speak again.”

“You are welcome to share my bed again, Arya,” Sansa tells her now to be conciliatory, “if you do not mind Berena and the children present.”

“I can sleep just fine, and on my own too. _Valar Morghulis_ : all men must die. They deserved to die for attacking Winterfell, and the Starks. Killing them will not keep me awake, nor weigh on my conscience. And Eddard needs not feel remorseful either-“

“But he is just a boy, Arya,” Sansa tries to mollify her.

“So? We were young when we learned. Just because he is a child does not mean he is safe. He needs learn that as well, and now he has,” she says decisively and almost belligerently. She begins to stride from the solar in a barely-contained huff and has the final word over her shoulder at all of them.

“The world isn’t safe for children. No one is ever safe.”


	37. Chapter 37

The next morning is dull and grey, with low hanging clouds that seem to almost touch the top of the weirwood tree. It has snowed heavily overnight, and the yard that had seen blood and death was now blanketed and peaceful. Sansa finds the stillness of the godswood almost eerie in contrast to the previous evening, and yet she also finds a tranquility here that had eluded her all through the night as she tossed and turned and woke in a panic from fitful bouts of sleep.

 _Why,_ she had asked herself countless times, _why do the men who want me do such terrible things? Does love truly poison them; or do they poison love with their heartlessness?_

She had though Joffrey purely evil: a monster; and Sandor Clegane was by his own admission a dog and a killer; _they’re all meat and I’m the butcher_ , he had told her one night. She understands now what he meant by having a song from her; she knows it means the same as the bawdy jests her husband and the other Umber men make about swords and swordplay. Even her once-lover, Lord Jon, had betrayed his own father to have her; and her own husband had once let a serving girl be flogged for an offence and a tragedy for which he had been equally responsible, without protest or intervention.

She knows well that her own behavior is not above reproach, in fact it is highly contemptible: she has betrayed her husband with his son. But, as Bran had pointed out, she at the very least feels bad about it, and her guilt and shame haunt her still. She knows that Lord Jon feels remorseful; and certainly her husband had suffered terribly over the abduction of his young cousin, and mayhaps even the fate of the girl’s maid. She wondered if Sandor Clegane feels remorse, or if he has changed; as Berena said her lord husband had changed.

_I will never know._

Still, as she prays for her husband and his sons and her brothers: Robb, the king, and Rickon and Jon, she adds Sandor Clegane to the names of those for whom she now asks the gods to protect. She does not know where he is or even if he still fights; but she had prayed for him years ago, the night Kings Landing had fell: she had asked the Mother to protect him, and to gentle the rage inside of him. She asks the same again this cold morning. But her thoughts keep returning to her husband, always.

_May the old gods watch over him and protect him, and keep him safe from harm. He honors and keeps you always, and is a good man._

She wonders if he is somewhere safe, at a castle on the Wall with a warm bed and a fire and food and drink, devising strategy with her brothers Robb and Jon; or if he is beyond the Wall, hungry and fatigued, fighting in the cold and snow and ice against terrible creatures that cannot be killed.

_Be safe, my lord; be safe and come back to me and to our children. We love you so very much._

She opens her eyes suddenly when she feels a cold wetness on her nose, and she sees that it has resumed snowing. Big fat white flakes descend lightly and as Sansa looks around, she sees that snow has settled on the hoods of all those praying alongside her in the godswood. She cannot help giggling at the tableau they make.

Young Eddard looks up from his prayers now; and she smiles at him and brushes the snow off his head.

“You have snow on you too, Mother,” he tells her.

“Do I look funny?” she teases him.

“Yes!” he laughs, and she is happy to hear him laugh. But then he looks contrite and says: “I shouldn’t laugh while we’re praying.”

“I’d say it’s just what we needs hear, boy,” the wilding woman Osha tells him. “The gods invented laughter, didn’t they?”

Sansa smiles gratefully at her, though timidly. She was not surprised to hear that the woman had been a spearwife; for she had killed one of Theon’s men who had tries to attack another woman in the kitchens. Sansa’s maid had whispered that she’d struck him on the head with a heavy iron pot and cut his throat open with a ridged knife used to slice bread. Just the thought had made the girl shiver and Sansa’s stomach had turned to remember crunch of bone and wet sucking sounds the sword made slicing through flesh when she took Theon’s head. Arya had instead hacked at the head of the ugly man, the one thought to have been Lord Bolton’s bastard, with his own blade.

“Where is Arya this morning? Did she sleep late; or is she training with her sword?”

“I saw milady’s wolf go into the trees when we entered the godswood this morning, milady,” Berena tells her now, “but I’ve not seen it since, nor seen your lady sister at all.”

“Thank you, Berena. If you would take Eddard back inside, please; I will go look for her.”

Sansa walks through the godswood, drinking in the snow-covered quiet of the sanctuary of the old gods. The snowfall reminds her of the time Bran and Arya had ambushed her with snowballs when she had walked out of the keep. It had been a lifetime ago, when Bran could still walk and climb and their father had been living and they had not gone South to Kings Landing and everything had changed. She sighs longingly. Sometimes, it was hard to stop herself from thinking what may have been: if Lord Arryn hadn’t died and King Robert had not rode for Winterfell and her father had not accepted his offer to be Hand.

 _Father would still be alive_ , she dreams, _and Bran could still walk._ She would be married by now, doubtless; and she wonders briefly to whom her father would have betrothed her. She wonders if he would have allowed her to marry South, as she had then wished; or if she would have remained in the North. Lord Jon immediately comes to mind and she pushes that thought away: though likely, she feels it a betrayal even to ponder now. Mayhaps the eldest Karstark, who would still be living had it not been for the Kingslayer, or Daryn Hornwood or the heir to House Tallhart. So many young Northmen had been lost in the War of Five Kings, she thinks, and even more may be lost now. She does not want to think about these past prospective husbands any more.

Further back in the godswood, the snow shrikes can be heard above her head. The trees are so very old that many of their trunks are gnarled or stunted from growing in the perpetual shade of the sentinel and soldier pines. In the very back corner where the wall of the godswood met the wall of the glass garden, Sansa finds her sister. Her older brothers had discovered the small fort fashioned out of fallen branches when they were all very young; even Theon had been a boy then, she remembered. Her father had said that he had played there as a boy, and he had not known how old it was then. It was still there, propped between and oak and ash tree and built across the trunk of a fallen pine. The trees were likely as old as the castle, if not older, and the fallen branches and layers of fallen leaves and pine needles had created a heavy canopy that had shielded them from rain and snow when they hid and played. Beneath the newly-fallen snow on the make-shift roof, Arya is huddled inside with Nymeria curled up next to her.

“Go away, Sansa,” she says without looking up.

“I played here once too, Arya,” she reminds her.

“No you didn’t,” she scoffs dismissively. “You never wanted to play games and get dirty. Now go away or I’ll put snow down the back of your gown…you wouldn’t want to ruin one of Lord Umber’s fancy gifts to you, would you?”

Sansa bends and crawls into the small space anyway and sits with her heavy cloak wrapped round her, and though Arya moves away, her direwolf turns her head to Sansa to be petted and scratched behind her ears.

“My greatest gifts are my children, Arya,” she tells her quietly, “and I’m grateful that you helped keep them safe last night. Won’t you please tell me what is wrong? I would like to help, or at least comfort you, if I can.”

Arya turns her head away and rests it on her knees which she holds tightly to her chest. “You can’t help me.”

“Are you with child, Arya?” Sansa asks her now. She waits patiently for an answer and keeps stroking Nymeria’s thick fur. _Lady…_

“I don’t want it,” she says suddenly, and Sansa hears the defensiveness in her voice. She turns her face back now. “I can go to the winter town and get moon tea or…or something,” she challenges.

Sansa stills her heartbroken gut reaction and continues to pet Nymeria before answering. “If you want, Arya; but it would be better to ask Berena. That way there would not be any talk…we know well how much people love to talk about high-born girls from the castle.”

Arya continues to stare her down. “And how do you know she can make proper moon tea?”

“Because she needed to give it to me when I fell and lost my babe. My womb was infected and I developed a fever; I might have died. As it is…I may never have another child,” she tells her softly and simply, without looking at her sister.

Arya takes a moment before answering again. “I’m sorry, Sansa; but…our situations are not the same.”

“No,” Sansa agrees patiently, “they are not.”

Arya tries to justify herself: “It’s just…It’s no good, Sansa: I’m not sweet and kind like you and Mother. I would be a terrible mother, just like I’m a terrible person-“

Sansa shakes her head now. “Don’t say that, Arya: you are so good with Eddard and even Serena.”

“I almost got young Eddard killed,” she counters swiftly. “Isn’t that what you all think? That bastard could have cut him down, just like the Hound cut down Mycah.”

“Sandor Clegane was ordered to kill him-“ Sansa begins to explain.

“I don’t care!” Arya cries. “I want all those who hurt us to suffer and die, like we all suffered and father died! I want the world to be safe! I want justice!”

“Oh, Arya, if the gods make our enemies suffer and die and we call it justice…what does it mean when we suffer and die? Surely our enemies call it the justice of the gods too,” she reasons. “Someday someone may try to kill Eddard, and call it justice.”

“How can you say that, Sansa? Eddard was protecting you, and Father never did anything wrong!”

“Nor have most of the Northmen fighting at the Wall, Arya; and are they not protecting us? Yet many will die and many more will suffer. This is why some do not believe in the gods, or that there is any true justice or mercy in the world.”

 _There are no true knights, no more that there are gods. If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule the world, don’t ever believe any different._ Sansa though it queer that Arya should think so much like the man she claimed to hate.

Arya’s words catch in her throat, and Sansa sees that she is on the verge of tears; try though she might to stop them.

“Why, Sansa? Why did it all have to happen? Are the gods just cruel?”

Sansa takes a deep breath and tries to explain. “Arya, you taught Eddard that every hurt is a lesson; and that every lesson makes you better: mayhaps…mayhaps that applies to life as well as to sword fighting or water dancing. Mayhaps the gods do not mean to punish us for what we may or may not have done, but instead send us trials because they want us to learn and to be better.” _As I have tried to learn to be better, and my lord had learned to be better,_ she thinks. _I had once thought the gods were laughing at me; now I see I have had to learn some very hard lessons to be better._

Arya just looks at her a moment. “I don’t understand how I am better, Sansa; I have only learned that I don’t want others to hurt me, and that I can kill them if they do.”

“You have learned to be strong, and to protect yourself and those you love: as any good mother would do for her children,” Sansa reasons. “I know that you are good, and that you love your family: your children will be your family, Arya. I know that you will be a good mother,” she assures her as she puts her arms around her and draws her near. Nymeria sits up on her haunches and leans over to lick her face.

Arya blubs a half-sob. “But I’m no good at sewing or picking out colors for dresses or fixing my hair pretty-“

Sansa laughs lightly. “You’ll have a maid, and a nurse for the children; doubtless Harrion will insist for his lady. A child will make him so happy, Arya: an heir to Karhold.” She rocks her slightly now to soothe her: her fearless sister who is afraid. “And please, do not think that you have to be like me or like Mother to be a good wife and mother: we have made our mistakes, and hopefully we have learned from them. Don’t stop yourself from being happy because you are afraid that you are not perfect or everything is not right somehow…I did that, though I did not realize it for a long time. Make it right, Arya; as I have learned to do, and will keep doing for as long as I can.”

“Promise me…” Arya ventures quietly.

“Anything, Arya.”

“Promise me…if anything should happen to me, or to Harrion, promise me that you will take my children…and not Mother.”

Sansa nods her understanding. ‘I promise, Arya; and I promise they will be just like you.”

Arya sputters a short laugh. “I was hoping you could do better than _that_!” She throws her arms around Sansa’s waist and they laugh together now. 


	38. Chapter 38

Berena examines Arya gently and skillfully while Sansa does her needlework in a chair, turning her head away as a lady should. The only sound is the crackling hearth fire and the harsh wind outside. The lightly falling snow has turned into a blowing snowstorm, creating high drifts in the yards and cold drafts around doors and windows and down chimney flues. Hearth fires have been flaring up and dying out throughout the castle.

Berena straightens now. “You can put your breeches back on, milady: we’re done for now,” she tells Arya quietly.

“Am I really pregnant?”

Sansa turns her head towards Berena at Arya’s blunt words.

“You are, milady; and very healthy as well. I expect you’ll have no troubles for now, other than the morning sickness,” she tells her.

“I’ve already been sick in the morning. Did you have that, Sansa?” Arya asks, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

“I did, Arya: it’s very common and it passes eventually.”

Arya seems to think a moment. “It’s going to hurt like the seven hells, isn’t it?”

Sansa drops her eyes and smiles. “Yes, Arya: it does; I can only assure you that it is worth it in the end. Even my first…” she stops talking now.

“I’ll leave you now, milady, unless you need me for anything else,” Berena says and takes her leave discreetly. Arya turns back to Sansa as soon as she is gone.

“It was hard, wasn’t it?”

“I- I was young then…and he was a big baby, of course,” Sansa tells her haltingly.

“You must have been scared,” Arya says sympathetically.

Sansa nods and smiles sadly. “Mother was there: that helped… You’ll be fine, Arya. You’re strong, like Berena says.”

“…and Harrion is not an Umber. Eddard’s big for his age. It must have been like passing a roasted pig,” Arya says crudely as she pulls on her breeches and laces them.

“Gods be good, Arya…” Sansa murmurs, embarrassed; and Arya raises her eyebrows and smiles. “Are you certain about what you asked: do you truly want me to raise your children if...? Why not Robb and Roslin? The children would be raised at Winterfell like you and I.”

“Robb is too busy; and Roslin is praying for a son,” she tells Sansa, “if she should have one, he will be her whole life. Besides, Last Hearth is closer to Karhold; and the Karstarks will be their family too,” she says softly now.

Sansa is touched by her sister’s softness. “You care for him…for Harrion.” It is not a question.

Arya ducks her head and turn red. “I…I guess I should now, shouldn’t I? He’ll be the father.” She sits on the edge on her bed and looks towards the window. “I…I wish I could tell him. You’re right: he would be happy, I think.”

“Of course he will, Arya. Will you send a raven to Karhold?”

“Not yet,” Arya repliesdecisively, “and don’t tell Mother yet either.”

“I won’t tell her at all, Arya; it is for you to tell her but…is something wrong between you and Mother? Forgive me but you said you did not want her to raise your children-“

Arya frowns and fiddles with her boot laces.

“It’s because of Jon, isn’t it? You were always closer to him,” Sansa ventures.

“She was cold to him, Sansa; and it was never his fault; even now, when she knows he is not father’s… she calls him Lord Commander Snow,” Arya complains.

“That is his title, Arya; mayhaps she means to be respectful,” she suggests though she doubts it is the real reason.

“She has always made him feel like he doesn’t belong.”

Sansa sighs. “I know,” she says gently, because she wonders if Arya thinks the same about her. She had always called Jon her half-brother; and she had never felt close to him until he came to visit Last Hearth and confided in her. _I loved Joffrey immediately_ , she thinks now, _and was distant to my own blood._ She shakes her head to remember, and wishes that she could forget.

“I’ll bet she feels guilty. She should,” Arya says now. But Sansa knows what it is to feel guilty.

“Please don’t be so hard on Mother, Arya: think how she must have felt then. She had married a near-stranger and been separated for nearly a year and came to her new home to find that he had another son by another woman. Imagine if the same were to happen to you when you finally go to Karhold.”

“I would never be like that,” Arya insists. _How I thought the same about Cersei,_ Sansa remembers.

“You would not be hurt to think Harrion fathered a child on another woman?” Sansa asks pointedly. “I should think you would, Arya; I should think any woman would…unless she cared little for her husband.” _As I did._

Arya tilts her head quizzically. “Does the Greatjon have any bastards? He was unmarried for a long time,” she notes.

Sansa simply stares at her. Despite everything Berena had told her of her husband as a young man and during his first marriage, she had never thought to ask if he had fathered any bastards. Certainly he had never told her of any; and there were no soldiers who went by the surname of Snow in the castle. Sansa has suddenly realized that she does not know the answer.

“I- I don’t know,” she says, bewildered, “in truth, Arya: I never thought to ask.”

“And Smalljon? He’s known for his wenching; at least they say that’s why he doesn’t marry. Still, he is the heir: you would think he’d need to get on with it. Why doesn’t his father make him-“

“That’s enough, Arya,” Sansa rebukes her sharply. “I do not mind sharing confidences with you, but I will not stoop to low gossip about my husband’s family,” she adds primly as she fusses with her needlework and fairly jams it into a basket.

“Oh well, the Greatjon has other sons anyways; same as Robb has Bran and Rickon if Roslin never-“

“That is very cruel to say out loud, Arya: Roslin would be deeply hurt to think that we doubted her. It is the highest honor for a queen to give her king a son and heir…and the worst, most wretched failure if she does not.”

Arya looks unconvinced. “Don’t be so dramatic, Sansa; how would you know how Roslin feels?”

Sansa stands with her basket and looks at her sister stonily now. “You forget, Arya: I almost married a king,” she reminds her. Without another word, she lets herself out of the bedchamber.

When she reaches the nursery, she hears high-pitched wailing and then sees her daughter and one of the princesses locked in a tug-of-war over a cloth doll. Serena is bigger, and she quickly pulls it away from her cousin and holds it up out of her reach, to the sound of the other girl’s even louder wailing.

“Mine, Mama,” she proclaims proudly when she sees Sansa.

But Sansa shakes her head. “No, Serena: that is not your doll,” she tells her levelly. “You will give it back now and say you are sorry.”

Serena shakes her head vigorously. “Mine! I want,” she insists stubbornly.

 _Gods be true: she is her father’s daughter._  “Serena,” she intones, “that is not your doll and you have made your cousin cry. If you would be a lady, you will not take things from others and hurt their feelings. It is kinder to offer what you have, and then find something else to play with.”

Serena hangs her head and pouts a moment but then obeys. She hands the doll back contritely and apologizes. “I sowwy,” she blurts gracelessly. Her little cousin huffs and stops crying and hugs the doll desperately to her.

“There now,” Sansa reaches to wipe a tear from the girl’s face and turns back to her daughter. “You did well, Serena. I’m proud of you. What would you like to play with now? There are blocks and, goodness, here is a fine wooden horse,” she offers.

“Sing, Mama.”

“What do you say when you want something, Serena?” she asks gently.

“Pease,” her daughter whispers.

“Please: that is right. Come here now,” she holds out her arms and lifts Serena into her lap where she curls up and looks up to her mother. As Sansa begins to sing softly, her daughter’s eyes grow heavy and her little mouth grows slack and soon she is dozing soundly.

“I’d say that’d be just what she needed, milady,” Berena says quietly behind her. “They’ve been closed up too long with the storm outside.”

“Is it still snowing?” Sansa asks and Berena nods. “Berena, there is something I should like to ask…about my lord and,” she hesitates, “what you told me on our journey here.”

“And what would that be, milady?” Berena asks.

“Did he…does my lord have any natural children…from when he was married or before…or even after? As my sister pointed out, he was a widower for some years.”

Berena appears to think and then shakes her head. “I know of none, milady; and certainly if there were any in the castle or village, they would be fair easy to recognize. Umbers are the biggest men for leagues around; though it’d be a mite harder to tell if they were girls. Still,” she continues, “I had dosed more than a few serving girls with moon tea over the years: I didn’t ask who got them in a family way and they didn’t tell…and that was fine wit’ me, milady.”

“And…the maid who was flogged: did she…”

“If she did, she did’na come to me about it, milady; expect she would’a known better and gone to the midwife in the village. Plenty did. She knows her trade well enough,” she says lightly though Sansa sees the tight lines around her mouth.

“You would not have helped her,” Sansa concludes.

Berena scoffs. “I expect I would’a given her a double dose…for milady’s sake: not to have the lord’s get born on the wrong side of the blankets. That might’a been why she never came to me if she needed.” She sees Sansa looking at her and defends herself: “I don’t judge girls so harsh as it sounds, milady. Many of them in service are bound to find trouble with the men in the castle. Lords, castellans, cooks…they’ll take what they want if they’ve a mind to, and girls’d be turned out if they say no so what choice have they? But,” she nods knowingly, “that one weren’t one to say no: thought far too much of herself…though maybe it weren’t all her fault. A low-born girl’s got no business being so pretty, I says: I makes her want above her station.”

“And those above her station want her,” Sansa observes.

Berena eyes her shrewdly. “I expect that’s so, milady; though it’s not cause to be overly-proud .”

“Some men fought and died for beauty, or so say the songs; and there were women who did have some power, even over kings when their wives and queens did not.” Sansa purses her lips and thinks. “I sometimes think that girls who are high-born are not bred and raised to be anything but wanted, so that they will make advantageous marriages. I wonder if that is any cause to be proud,” she questions.

 Berena sighs wearily. “It’d be your duty, milady, as much as any high-born lad trains to fight and even to command men. And then you have children and oversee the running of the castle. Surely there was more to your upbringing than just being pretty. It is not as though you haven’t a mind of your own.”

“Have I; and would it even matter? I was betrothed to Prince Joffrey once to forge an alliance between our houses; though he didn’t truly want me, only to humiliate and break me because I saw him weak once. Others have wanted me, I know; to no good end either: Theon saw me as some prize to which he felt entitled, even attempting to steal me away. And that horrible bastard: he wanted to hunt me like a wolf, he said, but I saw his…his lust,” she says with a shiver of disgust.

She thinks of Sandor Clegane who looked her body over drunkenly on the Serpentine steps, and once held a dagger to her throat and made her sing for him. She remembers the eyes of all the men at court who took their look when she was stripped of her gown and beaten, though she had not yet flowered. She thinks of Lord Jon’s illicit passion for her; and even of her husband, who bedded her when she was three-and-ten, because he had wanted her.

“I once dreamed of nothing but love, and thought the wanting came from it; but wanting,” she frowns, “seems to be very different for men: they want even those they do not love, or even hate. It seems that it can be to poison their minds, as much when they can have you as when they cannot. It can feel like a terrible burden…even a curse, to be wanted, Berena; and to feel that you have little or no say in the matter,” she tells her.

“That may be, milady; but the lord’s no Prince Joffrey or Lord Theon nor Bolton’s bastard, if you’ll permit me sayin’,” she counters mildly. “He was never known to take a girl unwillingly: I should think he’d be too proud, more proud than honorable even. There’d be no poison in his mind: he loves you truly, milady; of that I’m right certain.”

Sansa ducks her head and blushes slightly. “Yes, I believe that he does; and that he wants me as well. I only hope that he always will even though…” she stops short now.

Berena looks at her and sighs. “Certainly you know he don’t only bed you for heirs, milady,” she tells Sansa frankly. “And you were still taking the moon tea when we left and so it’s not all for certain yet: you may have more babes in time,” she assures her.

“Mayhaps,” Sansa murmurs sadly. _If the gods forgive me,_ she hopes; then she changes the subject. “You know a great deal about such matters, Berena. How did you learn midwifery: was it simply by having children, or did other women call upon you for help?”

“Partly that, milady; and then I apprenticed with an old woman when she asked me. She looked for someone to take her place someday, she said to me: she weren’t going to live forever and midwives is sorely needed. Commons can’t often get to a maester, and even if they can what some knows of women is poor medicine, indeed: they learn, but they don’t understand, nor want to. Commons’d be just a bother to some of them.”

“Maester Luwin has always been respectful,” Sansa ventures.

“Aye, milady, but he’s more learned than some: got more links in his chain, that one. Still, he’s a sceptic by nature, I’ve noticed, but he at least believes what’s right in front of him. Some women’s been bleeding to death and a maester will tell you she’ll be well enough in time,” she rolls her eyes.

“Can you teach me, Berena?” Sansa asks impulsively.

“You, milady, would be a midwife?” She sounds only mildly incredulous.

“Can I not learn…as you did?” she wonders now. “Mayhaps I can be more than a proper lady and a wife and mother. If Arya can learn to use a sword…and Bran can study the stars with Maester Luwin, then why can I not learn something useful too?”

Berena eyes her shrewdly again, and then she nods respectfully. “Very well, milady…let’s begin.”


	39. Chapter 39

The snow has been falling for days and the servants in Winterfell have needed to shovel paths through the yards and between all the buildings. Guardsmen walking the walls push off the show that has gathered between the crenulations to see even though they all report there is little to see but more snow. Even the winter town is quiet and few venture forth except to get their bread from the baker and their ale from the brew-master.

Sansa spends her days in the nursery with her daughter or attending her son’s lessons and in the queen’s chambers sewing with Roslin and her mother. Her evenings after their meal are now spent in the maester’s turret studying books on childbirth and other tracts on women’s illnesses. Maester Luwin has brought them for her from the Library Tower, rightfully believing that Septon Chayle would refuse her their use. The maester had gently resisted her interest as well until she had appealed to his practical nature.

“Surely if this war should continue into another Long Night, we cannot know who and what knowledge will survive, Maester Luwin.”

He had acquiesced on the condition that she only read the books and scrolls in his tower, to which she complied with her own condition that Berena be permitted to consult with her. After a hesitant pause, he had agreed.

This night, however, she is reading alone as the maester checks on the many in sick bed with colds and chills and fevers. Because the fevers are infectious, Arya had needed to tell the maester and her mother about her pregnancy. The maester had summarily confined her to her own chambers until such time as there was less sickness in the castle, and Arya has been loudly complaining behind her closed door ever since.

Sansa moves a lamp closer to the drawing that she is examining, and she is so engrossed in her study that she does not hear the maester enter.

“Do you have any questions about what you are reading, my lady?” he asks.

Sansa raises her head now. “More than I can put into words, Maester Luwin, though none seem to be addressed in these books,” she tells him.

“Alas, my lady, there is still a great deal we do not understand: we know what we observe and what we have learned from others and from the works of the maesters of the Citadel,” he nods to the book open before her, “but there are still as many unanswered questions as you have discovered for yourself, most especially about the beginnings of life.”

Sansa glances back at the drawing before her. “Did you cut people open at the Citadel, Maester Luwin?”

“Corpses, my lady: it is how we learn the inner workings of the human body to better serve the living.” He also glances at the detailed drawing of a woman’s abdomen and organs cut open and identified and he furrows his brow. “I wonder if I have not done you a disservice to permit such study; it is most indelicate a matter for a high-born lady,” he tells her.

“Does not every woman, high-born and commons, have the same insides? And so how can a woman’s insides be too delicate for a woman?” she questions him archly.

Maester Luwin’s eyes seem to twinkle and he suppresses a smile. ‘It would appear you have bested me, my lady: I have no answer to that.” He pats her hand now fondly. “You forget that I have known you most of my life as a girl; and I forget that you are not a girl any longer, but a wife and a mother and a women grown; and quite a level-headed and competent woman at that. Mayhaps that should not surprise me since I oversaw your education with your mother and Septa Mordane; but you always seemed a bit too much with your head in the clouds to have turned out so practical, Sansa.”

She looks down at her hands now. “My education took a very different turn when I lost Septa Mordane. Practicality seemed more…necessary after that,’ she relates sadly.

“If I could have spared you all that…if we could have your father back, my lady-“ he begins.

“We cannot,” she replies quietly, “but I thank you for your kindness…and for helping me now.”

He sighs ponderously. “As I have said, I only hope I am not mistaken. As I have also said, I would spare you any harm if I could; and harm can come to those with knowledge beyond their expectations…and the expectations of others,” he warns her. “Whether it be the gods or men who decreed different stations and spheres for men and women, I will not presume to say; but it has been so for thousands of years and to discover what is outside of those…limitations can lead to dissatisfaction, unhappiness and even misery. It is oft times pointless and painful to throw one’s self at the bars of our prison, even if they exist in our minds.”

“Was Shiera Seastar a miserable and unhappy woman?”

He raises his eyebrows at her question. “Was she a woman to admire and emulate, do you think, Sansa? She never married, and took many lovers, including her own bastard half-brother.”

“They say that she kept a great library, was vastly well-read and spoke many languages,” Sansa reminds him.

“And so was reputed to practice the dark arts, my lady. Women of learning are often suspected of evil intent, and even midwives have been denounced as witches in parts of Essos and even Westeros when children are born misshapen or die for no apparent reason. Some are hanged and even burned.”

Sansa thinks back now. “A man once said to me that sorcery was the sauce that men spooned over their own failures, to make it more palatable,” she recounts. Tyrion Lannister had told her that when Joffrey had her beaten and stripped because of Robb’s victory; but he had also warned her that his father would defeat Robb, and he hadn’t. She wondered if he had called it sorcery then, before he fled into exile from Kings Landing.

The maester chuckles at that. “That may well be so, my lady; but it is still men who have the right to condemn who they please for sorcery, and midwives are sometimes seen as _maegi_ : woods witches skilled in herb lore. Even the herbs they use to promote fertility or to impede it, or to treat other illnesses, are sometimes denounced as poisons.”

“And moon tea,” she questions, “is it not administered at times by maesters?”

“Moon tea has been proven efficacious, my lady; it is its uses and misuses that are questioned. Some women use it to hide their infidelities, or to lie about their innocence: this use is considered duplicitous, in the case of high-born women even treasonous,” he intones.

“Treason,” Sansa repeats softly. Her father had been beheaded for treason for questioning Joffrey’s legitimacy.

“Rightfully so, my lady, if the woman is married to a king or a prince, or betrothed by a king’s command. To willfully give up her maidenhead to another, or to couple with and carry the child of another is treason.”

Sansa looks down again. “As…as Queen Cersei did,” she observes. _And as I did: I had been commanded to wed by King Robb._

“Exactly like Cersei Lannister,” he dismisses her quickly. “Now in cases of women who are forcibly despoiled, or too young or too sick to carry a child: moon tea is considered a proper course of treatment. Though it always has its dangers: the later in the course of childbearing it is administered, the more dangerous it is: the bleeding it causes may be excessive and difficult if not impossible to staunch.”

“And yet still safer than other, more desperate means, Maester,” Berena says as she enters the turret. “Begging your pardons for having overheard,” she adds respectfully.

“Of course, please be seated,” the maester demurs graciously, and he nods again towards the books Sansa is reading now. “There is mention of dangerous means of attempting to miscarry: blows to the abdomen and …falls. Forgive me, Sansa,” the maester murmurs, and Sansa nods silently. “And poisons.”

“There’s worse things than that, maester, practiced because none will help the poor girls and they end up dying all the same. Though some will say they deserve it; I say leave them to the gods. No woman risks her life lightly, to my mind; and it is not the place of a healer to ask what is in their hearts.”

“I am a counsellor as well as a healer,” Maester Luwin tells her now, “I do not take that trust lightly.”

“Nor do I,” Berena counters evenly. “But I know what it is to carry a child in circumstances both good and bad. I know what it is to watch them die for lack of things some take for granted. I have seen mothers and their babes die after hours and even days of laboring through blood and sweat and toil and pain. And I have seen girls and women so badly used that the sight of them would sicken the most battle-hardened man,” she stares at him steadily now.

The man bows his head graciously. “I am bested again; I have only heard of such things but thankfully been spared the sight. I cannot say if they would change my counsel, but-“

“Knowing that you don’t know, maester,” she tells him, “is more than some know.”

He smiles his suppressed smile again and almost chuckles. “I leave you in good hands, Sansa,” he says as he rises to leave. “But consider what I have told you: you have a happy life, and children; and the responsibilities of the lady of Last Hearth. You do not need to take on more than that.” He nods to Berena and bows to Sansa before retiring.

Sansa smiles weakly at Berena and then looks back to her book.

“Is something troubling you, milady?”

“What – what you said about girls badly used…I wonder if I could stomach such a sight. Perhaps the maester is right: I am not meant for such work.”

“You’ve seen some horrible sights, have you not, milady? And what you’ve said about this King Joffrey mistreating you: it takes strength, milady, to suffer and stand up again and even to stay as gentle as you are. I reckon you’ve no cause to doubt yourself; and may even have the strength to help others.”

“I thank the gods that I was spared sharing his bed,” she says plainly. “He would not have treated me gently; and he once threatened to have my head off if I gave him a stupid child. He always said I was stupid,” she tells the older woman, who simply looks expectantly at her. She suddenly remembers her husband telling her how well she comforted the families of dead soldiers from Last Hearth; and even his Uncle Mors nodding approvingly as she counseled with him about winter rationing.

“I’m not stupid,” she concludes, and pulls the open book back closer to the light again. Berena comes to sit beside her and, as she begins to explain the drawing in more detail, they hear the maester’s footsteps coming down the stairs from the rookery. When they look up, Sansa immediately sees that he is holding a scroll and that he looks somber.

“My lady,” he says gravely, “please come with me: we needs find the queen.”

…….

Roslin sits rigidly still in her armchair, with her hands clasped tightly together. She has abandoned her needlework, as has lady Catelyn. Sansa has come to the solar with Maester Luwin who still holds his scroll.

“F-from the Wall?” Queen Roslin asks him, the tremor in her voice belying her regal composure .

“A raven from the Lord Commander, my queen. Would you read it first, or shall I tell you all what it says?” he asks her quietly.

“If you would,” Roslin prompts him.

“King Robb has not returned from beyond the Wall. He has been missing long enough that they have sent out rangings after his party. The Lord Commander has gone himself, and Lord Harrion Karstark and Prince Oberyn of Dorne each lead parties of Night’s Watch men and wildlings to search for them,” he tells the ladies.

Catelyn turns to her good-daughter and takes her hand. “Not returned leaves open many possibilities, does it not? Could they have simply returned to another castle on the Wall?”

“They have send ravens, milady; and as of their leaving for beyond the Wall, the king had not yet returned.”

Sansa feels uneasy. “Surely my lord would also have also gone out to search for the king, Maester Luwin,” she asks now.

He turns his head sadly to face her. “My lady…Lord Umber was one of King Robb’s party. He went with him beyond the Wall. He has also not returned.”

Sansa sits staring while her heart clenches and turns cold inside her and all her breath slowly leaves her body.

“Lord Jon Umber, the younger, is at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. The Lord Commander writes that he has sent for him and for Ser Brynden Tully to come to Castle Black. I fear that is all the information I have, my lady.” He turns to Roslin now. “My queen.”

“Harrion will find them,” Arya say suddenly from the doorway, and she looks around at them when they all turn to her. “He will not let me down, or my family.” She looks straight at Roslin. “Harry will find Robb.”

“My lady, you should be in your chambers,” the maester reminds her.

“Nor will my uncle the Blackfish return without them: I have every confidence. They will be found. They will come back. Roslin. Sansa. You must believe that,” Catelyn insists.

 _As your husband came back?_ Sansa wants to scream at her, or laugh hysterically at her, or fall to the floor and cry. But she cannot seem to do anything but sit. The hearth fire casts deep shadows into the corners and against the walls and Sansa feels surrounded by darkness. Then she feels a pair of hands take hers and looks at her sister on her knees before her, holding her gaze steadily with her serious grey eyes.

“He’ll come back, Sansa. He’s a great warrior. He killed the Mountain. The gods are not so cruel, remember?”

Sansa snatches her hands away. _The gods are just…and they are punishing me, still._

“Valar morghulis…remember?” she says tightly to Arya.

Before Arya can reply, she stands so suddenly that her chair falls over behind her and she runs from the solar, ignoring the calls from her family to come back. Sansa runs through the hallways of the keep, turning corners and rushing headlong down stairwells and passing servants so swiftly that some lose their balance and drop trays and baskets. Still she races towards the doors leading outside of the Great Keep. She needs push with all her strength to open the door against the wind and the snowdrift as she struggles outside into the pathway through the yard. The wind is howling and it sends snow pelting into her face and her hair and onto her wool dress, making her shiver. The cold bites at her exposed skin, and her face and hands soon feel numb but still she presses on across the yard to the nearest gate into the godswood: a smaller wooden gate that she must push with all her might to open. She struggles now through the deep snow towards the weirwood: the ancient Heart Tree of Winterfell. She stops in front of the carved face, trembling and exhausted; and now she finds that she is crying.

“Why? Why must you hurt him to punish me?” she means to shout but she is whimpering softly, she realizes. “Take me instead, I beg you: I’ll lie down here and die before you if you would only please…”

But she is sobbing too hard to finish, and so she lets herself fall over but as she does she is caught and lifted easily and held tightly against a fur-clad chest.

“HODOR! HODOR!”

Helpless, Sansa curls into him and lets herself be carried back into the keep.


	40. Chapter 40

Hodor carries her to her bedchamber, leaving her with Maester Luwin, her maid and Berena. There she is stripped of her icy-stiff wet gown and underskirts and stockings and smallclothes. Her maid pulls a woolen bedgown over her head and towels her hair dry before the roaring hearth fire as Berena wraps her in a warm fur from the bed and hands her a pewter cup of mulled wine. Sansa shake her head wordlessly.

“Please, Sansa,” Maester Luwin advises her patiently, “you needs get warm quickly. I only thank the gods that Hodor was leaving the stables and saw you make for the godswood in just your gown and slippers.”

_You have reason to thank the gods; that was all I had wanted._ She shakes her head again.

“Think of your children, then: your lord’s children. You must stay well for their sakes.”

Silently, she relents and takes the cup from Berena. She takes small sips at first, and then drains the cup all at once.

“That should do it,” the maester remarks archly. “Come under the furs now, Sansa; and promise me you will stay there until morning. I will come to see you again then.”

“Roslin…the queen,” she whispers.

“I have given her dreamwine to help her sleep. She is keeping it all inside…as befits a queen. I see you still have some of your romantic impulses, Sansa; and just when I had thought you so level-headed and practical.”

She turns her head away from him. _The gods want their due, and I would give my life for his: that could not be more practical._

“You have seen worse than this, my lady,” he reminds her gently. “You are strong; just stay strong now.”

“I’ll stay with milady, Maester Luwin; least until she sleeps,” Berena tells him, and nods to Sansa’s maid who leaves with her wet clothing bundled into a dripping ball.

“The children,” Sansa asks their nurse now.

“Serena’d be asleep wit’ the princesses and their nurse, milady; young Eddard is reading all about the stars with Prince Bran. I’ll bring him to you before bed, if you’d like.”

Sansa shakes her head. “Best not…in case I have caught cold,” she murmurs and then sobs once after a pause. “What shall I tell him?”

“Don’t seem to me you have much to tell him, milady,” Berena notes calmly. “Why the Lord Commander thought to send that message by raven,” she tuts as she spreads and extra fur over Sansa’s bed. “Best to say nothing when you know nothing, it seems to me. Look what comes of it.”

“They must be missing for some time, Berena. Jon is not inexperienced in such matters, I imagine; else he would not have been made Lord Commander.”

“We will know more only when they tell us, Sansa,” the maester says now as he rises from his chair. “They are clearly doing all they can. Though I was surprised to hear Lord Umber’s son was at another castle on the Wall.”

“My lord and his heir never ride out together: so that they are not both lost if anything…” she leaves the rest unsaid.

Berena changes the subject quickly. “Who’d be this Prince of Dorne, then? Not a man of the Night’s Watch.”

“Prince Oberyn Martell is the brother of Prince Doran of Dorne, known as the Red Viper: a great adventurer and a formidable warrior in his own right. I am certain a fight against the Others was too intriguing a prospect for him to stay away. He is very far from Dorne at the Wall, and beyond.”

“But he is very well-traveled, I recall his daughters telling me,” Sansa remembers. “He has travelled all over Westeros and Essos, where he fought with mercenary companies.”

“That is true, my lady; he even studied at the Citadel for a time. However, I do not think that a life of order and service suited him,” he scoffs mildly.

Sansa is silent now.

“Well, I’ll leave you to rest, Sansa.” He gives her hand a gentle squeeze that conveys his sympathy and she closes her eyes tightly. She keeps them closed even after he is gone.

“Berena,” she whispers now.

“Yes, milady,” she hears her voice come closer.

“Talk to me, please. I- I would not be alone with my thoughts this night,” she pleads softly.

“Very well, milady,” the older woman replies wearily.

“Forgive me,” Sansa reconsiders. “I am selfish; you must be tired. I fear very much that you have must needed to act more often as my nurse than the children’s nurse.”

“I’m heavy-hearted myself this night, milady. I said once the Last Hearth was my home and family now and mind the lord and I have had our differences, I still feel anxious: for you and for all the lord’s children that I saw birthed and then nursed and watched grow.” Sansa opens her eyes now and thinks the woman’s lip trembles a little. “It’s of no comfort to you to say this, milady, but…I lost my own husband when he did not return, and t’was on a night very much like this one,” she says distantly.

Sansa sees her grief etched on her aged face. “I am so very sorry, Berena: to have forgotten your own losses,” she tells her now. “He…he was a huntsman, you have said.”

“Aye, he was. A big man, and strong. He were older than me as well,” she tells Sansa. “Came down from the mountains one Winter and asked at an alehouse if any man in the village had a daughter to wed. He weren’t one to waste words nor time: if aught needed doing, he did it. So when he were ready to wed and breed sons, he ahead and did it.”

“Did…did you love him?”

“In time, milady: he were a good man, a hard worker and plain-spoken and honest.  Hurt him terrible to lose our younger ones, but he held on and so did I. Late that same winter he went out to find to eat and never came back,” she says as she looks into the middle distance. “The worst were not knowing what happened: if it were a beast or just the cold. The worst were not knowing,” she repeats.

“Yes,” Sansa agrees quietly, “it is.”

They are interrupted by a soft but insistent knocking at the chamber door.

“Sansa? Please let me in,” Arya calls, her tone uncharacteristically gentle and courteous.

Sansa nods to Berena and, as soon as the older woman opens the door, Arya bursts in and throws herself on Sansa’s bed.

“I’m sorry, Sansa, I’m so, so sorry. I wanted to comfort you, not hurt you and make you run off like that,” she tells her in a solicitous rush of words. “I know you love him. I know you’re scared. I’m-“ she stops and swallows and gathers herself. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to help you like you’ve helped me about…about the baby,” she tells her.

Tears fill Sansa’s eyes at her sister’s kind words that are made all the more sincere by her heartfelt effusion. “I know,” she tells her in a hoarse whisper and holds out her arms to her.

Arya hugs her tightly, like a frightened child clinging to a parent. “I want him to come back for you, Sansa, for you and your children; just as I want Robb to come back for Roslin and her girls.”

Sansa nods tearfully over her shoulder. “And Harrion,” she whispers, “for you and your babe, Arya.”

The door creaks and their mother walks in silently and looks at them with a drawn face.

“It is nice to see my daughters close now. You were never close as girls,” she remarks.

Sansa sees her mother’s own worry and grief, so like Berena’s; and she reaches a hand out to her now.

“Come sit with us, Mother, please. I know that you understand,” she tells her.

Lady Catelyn sits stiffly on the edge of the bed and speaks dully. “I watched my own husband ride off to war, not once but twice. Then I watched him ride off to Kings Landing…That was not the time I feared he would not return, but he did not. Then I watched Robb leads his host to war; and I waited for him to return.” She nods slightly. “All we can do is wait…and hope that they come back.” She looks at her daughters now. “I would have hoped that you would never needs do this as I did,” she says shakily. “I hope- I hope you never needs grieve as I have,” she says solemnly.

Sansa and Arya look at her sympathetically now and Sansa squeezes her hand. Her mother seems not to notice.

“Of course, you grieved for your father as well but… I just hope I needs not grieve a son as well; nor you for a brother,” she continues.

“I’ll leave you now, milady, if you’ve no need of me,” Berena offers quietly.

“Thank you, Berena,” Sansa tells her and the old woman slips away and closes the chamber door. “Forgive me, Mother, I worry for Robb as well, as my brother and my king; but he is not father to my children nor is my life with him.”

Her mother nods again, absently, and then remarks: “Roslin sleeps.”

“Yes, Mother. The Maester gave her dreamwine.”

Catelyn Stark’s face seems even more drawn and harsh. “He could give me sweetsleep and milk of the poppy….and I would still lie awake this night,” she says almost bitterly, “and all the nights to come.”

Sansa is startled out of her worry to see her mother so deeply angry and unhappy; so much that she appears to be a hollow shade of herself, and all her love and warmth are supplanted by the dark emptiness of loss. Sansa hopes fervently that this will not be her fate as well. Arya glances at her, and she sees her sister is also daunted. Catelyn then seems to rouse and turns to Arya suddenly.

“Did not the maester confine you to your chambers, Arya? You must mind yourself and your child,” she says now.

“Yes, Mother; but I wanted to speak to Sansa.”

“And have you spoken to her, Arya Underfoot?” Lady Catelyn asks in a voice that is once again their mother’s voice.

“I have, Mother,” Arya looks chastened. “Good night, Sansa.”

“Good night, Arya,” Sansa says feelingly. “Good night, Mother.”

Her mother turns to cup her cheek gently now. “Try to sleep, Sansa. You needs care for your children as well.”

“Yes, Mother.”

As she leaves with Arya, Sansa thinks of how, even in her pain and grief, her mother is still always a mother. _As I will be, if my fate should be the same as hers_ , she thinks now. She had promised her husband that she would live; and that she would care for their children and tell them of him. She can hear his voice in her mind now:

_And…and think of me, if you would._

“Oh, my dearest husband…how I do think of you,” she whispers into the empty chamber. “I will think of you always, and tell our children of you. Eddard loves you fiercely and he is your son in every way: brave and kind and strong-willed. You have taught him so well. And Serena…your good girl is so stubborn and so full of life; she is a little giant breaking off her chains just like an Umber,” she smiles even as she sniffles and brushes fresh tears away.

There is another knocking at her door now, and Sansa thinks that Arya has returned.

“Come in,” she calls quietly.

But it is Bran, carried by Hodor; and though she has seen Bran being carried before she is struck this night by how truly helpless he looks; perhaps because she feels so very helpless herself.

_He should be a man grown, and yet he cannot even move about the castle without help. My poor, sweet brother… Mayhaps the gods truly are cruel._

“Sansa, can I talk to you; or is it too late?”

“Of course you can, Bran. Please come in, and Hodor too. I am so grateful to you, Hodor, for helping me: I fear I was quite overcome by the news the raven brought from Jon,” she tells him gently.

“Hodor,” the big man looks at her sadly.

“Set me down, Hodor,” Bran tells him. “Sit over there and sleep if you want. I’ll wake you when I’m ready to go back to my chamber.”

“Hodor,” he nods and lumbers to Sansa’s armchair next to the hearth. He puts one big hand over the other on his belly and leans his head to one side.

“Are you alright, Sansa?” Bran asks now then seems to shake his head. “I mean-“

“I know what you mean, Bran; and no I am not alright but I am still here...and I will needs bear up to whatever happens, no matter what happens, for my children. Did Eddard go to bed?”

“Yes, I stayed with him until he fell asleep. He doesn’t know; he thinks you have a cold and are confined to your chamber like his Aunt Arya. He’s quite interested in the stars: Lord Umber told him the stars on a clear night in the North are a wonder to see, and so he wants to tell him that he’s seen them through the maester’s far-eye.”

“Thank you for watching over him, Bran,” she tells him. “His father loves to tell him about the North,” she adds wistfully.

Bran is quiet a moment. “He-“ but he stops himself and seems to struggle; and Sansa is suddenly alert.

“What is it, Bran? Can you see him?” she asks anxiously. “Is he lost beyond the Wall? Is he with Robb?”

“I…I can’t see beyond the Wall, Sansa; at least when I try I cannot see anyone or anything but ice and fire,” he says with obvious frustration. “I- I saw him at Last Hearth…in your godswood,” he tells her reluctantly.

Sansa’s heart stills. “Oh…but he cannot be there, unless…is it his shade, Bran?” she whispers tremulously.

He furrows his brow but shakes his head as well. “I don’t think so: it can’t be because…because you were there with him, Sansa,” he looks to her now.

She thinks she understands now. “You are seeing us from a time before,” she says wistfully. “Just as you said you were able to see all the way back to the First Men. Were we happy, Bran? It seems that we had so little time to be happy now.”

“You were happy, Sansa; at least I think you were happy. He was holding you, but I could not see your face, only your hair: but I knew it was you.”

She nods silently now. She likes to think that she would be with him in the godswood at Last Hearth, and that he would hold her forever. She likes to know that Bran can see these memories of them together, even after they are gone.

“I like to know that you can see us when we were together, Bran; I only wish I could look back and see it myself…but I can feel it, in my heart I can feel it. I hope it never goes away.”

“Sansa, forgive me for asking but I have not seem Lord Umber since Robb called the banners for Father. Whenever they have met since, it has been at another castle.”

Sansa thinks now. “You are right, Bran: my lord has not been to Winterfell in all the years that we have been wed. What is it you are asking?”

Bran looks uncomfortable but asks anyway. “His beard and hair, Sansa: what color are they?”

“B-brown,” she replies, confused, “mixed with grey; I suppose he is mostly grey now but-“

“Grey,” he repeats emphatically, “you’re certain, Sansa?”

“Yes, Bran, of course I am certain,” she tells him, “but what- why do you ask?”

Bran looks at her carefully now. “I have never thought that I could see into the future, Sansa, but…when I saw you together: Lord Umber’s beard and hair…they were _white_.”


	41. Chapter 41

Sansa catches her breath suddenly and looks at Bran with trepidation.

“Are…are you certain, Bran? Are you certain that it was in the future?”

He twists his mouth and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Sansa; but I am not certain of anything with my…my sight. I have only seen things that I know have happened or that I can tell are past. I have seen people and places that I do not know, and so I am not certain when they happened. This is the first time I have seen anyone I know and thought it might not have happened yet.”

“Well…was I older, Bran?”

“Your back was to the Heart Tree, Sansa. I knew it was you from your hair; and I know Lord Umber. It was the Last Hearth, I’m sure of it. I just wish I could be sure…”

“…that it was not just a dream,” Sansa finishes for him.

“I’m sorry, Sansa. I wish Jojen were here to help. Mayhaps I should not have told you,” he says humbly.

“No,” she wipes a tear away: yet another tear, she thinks. “It is still a lovely dream, Bran,” she says a little hoarsely. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I wish I could see Robb,” he says miserably now.

Sansa takes his hands in hers and leans towards him. “I wish you could too, Bran. Are…are you scared for him?”

“I’m scared for all of us, Sansa. Robb is our king, and he has no heir…none but me,” he laments. “I’m not fit to be a king.”

“Don’t say that, Bran: you are so bright and clever and-“

“And crippled,” he interrupts bluntly. “There are no crippled Kings of Winter in the crypts, Sansa. There was Bran the Builder, Brandon the Burner, even a Brandon Ice Eyes….there is no place for Bran the Broken.”

“Please do not call yourself that, Bran: you are not broken.”

“A king defends his people, and rides into battle. I can use a bow on horseback; but if I fall off I’ll be trampled and killed. I’ll never wield Ice, not like a true Stark,” he tells her bluntly. “Men will never respect me, or fear me. I saw it when they came for the Harvest Feast when I was acting as Lord of Winterfell. I never want to be looked at that way again.”

Sansa does not know what to say to comfort him now, because she knows that he is not wrong. While she and her family know how capable Bran is; the rest of the North, and mayhaps even Westeros, will see him as weak. She also knows that will endanger the North, whether from the outside or from within.

“We do not yet even know if Robb will return, Bran. There is no need to concern yourself with this now. He may return and have sons to follow him; and you will be free to do what you wish with your life,” she tells him encouragingly. “I know that you see yourself as broken, Bran, but I do not: I see you as freed from expectations and duty. I- I do not know how that feels, nor do many people, I imagine. You have lost a great deal, I do not deny that; but try to think of what you may have gained, Bran.”

“I think that freedom is only an advantage if you can then choose what you want, Sansa. I would choose to walk…but I can’t,” he tells her. “Anyway, it may not even matter soon. If men like Robb and the Greatjon can fall in this battle, Sansa, I don’t know how we can ever hope to win this war.”

They look at each other now with the heavy truth of their situation resting heavily on them. Bran was right, she knew that: even if she had lost her lord, there could still be far greater losses ahead for all of them, for the entire North and eventually for all of Westeros and the known world. The outcome was as uncertain as ever, and the war was far from over.

…….

Sansa sits stiffly in the covered sledge that slips and sways over the tracks of the Kingsroad headed northward. So much had happened so swiftly in these last days of the war: the War of Ice and Fire, it was now styled; and though her mind had then been in turmoil from all the news and activity, she seems to have settled now into a kind of hollow shock and numbness that has left her without any thoughts or energy to bestir herself.

She looks down and sees the sleeves of her gown sticking out from beneath her fur-lined cloak: dyed black for mourning. Across from her sit her small children, also dressed in black beneath their cloaks and laprobes. Too much, she could not help thinking: it had all been too much.

The Targaryen girl, Daenerys Stormborn, had ended the war with her dragons: killing the Wights with their fiery breaths and driving the White Walkers back into the Lands of Always Winter. Without their army of thralls, the Others could not hope to breach the Wall. It was hoped that they would sleep again for another eight thousand years and that, without humans beyond the Wall to kill, they would never again have a vast army to lead against the world of men.

Robb, the King and her brother, was dead. Bran had kept Robb’s promise to recognize Daenerys as rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and so she in turn had recognized him as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. The Kingdom of the North was no more; and they were once again under the yoke of the South.

 _All for nothing,_ she had thought then. _So many gone and_ _it had all been for nothing_

With all the many scrolls bearing news and discussing terms that had been sent and received by ravens, there had been one precious scroll for Sansa, sent by her husband’s heir Lord Jon, and telling her that the Greatjon had been found and brought back to Castle Black. He had been the only survivor of Robb’s ranging party beyond the Wall, the scroll had read, and he had been very sick after so many days lost in the freezing cold. He also told her of the deaths of his younger brothers, and how a good number of their soldiers had been lost, along with many good Northmen. He said that he would send a party of guards to escort her home as soon as they reached Last Hearth.

She looks up to see her son watching her now and she smiles bravely for him.

“We will not be much longer, Eddard,” she soothes him gently. “Tonight should be the last night that we needs sleep at an inn, and then tomorrow we will be home again.”

“Will Father will be there in the yard to greet us,” he tells her, “just as he was when we left for Winterfell?”

“I am not certain, Eddard. Your brother wrote that your father is still quite ill; the maester may have confined him to his chambers. But he will be so very pleased to see you again, and your sister; and you can tell him how much you missed him.”

The last message that she received was not sent by raven but was hand-delivered to her by the young head of the Umber guardsmen who had arrived only a sennight ago at Winterfell. Sansa had been surprised to recognize the ginger-haired stable boy who had volunteered to fight in the war against the Others; and he ducked his head shyly when he saw that she was staring.

“Lord Jon has charged me to bring you and Lord Umber’s children home to Last Hearth, m’lady. I’ve also been charged with delivering messages of con- _do_ -lences to the queen and to Lord Stark,” he fumbled with the unfamiliar term. The boy had gone down on one knee before Roslin, and she had smiled wanly and bid him rise.

“I am no longer a queen,” she had told him kindly, “and so you needs not bend the knee before me.”

“You’re my king’s lady,” he told her with a humble sincerity, “though my king be no more, and my lord bid me show you every kindness and courtesy.” He had held out a scroll to her, and Roslin had taken it and thanked him. Sansa had never learned what words her husband had written to her brother’s widow, but it had seemed to strengthen her resolve to stay in the North and to raise her daughters at Winterfell, as Bran and her mother had encouraged her to do since they had received word of Robb’s death.

Nevertheless, Sansa has told Roslin the morning that she left Winterfell that she and her daughters would be welcome at Last Heart.

“If you should ever fell …confined,” she remarked gently, “or simply wish for company for yourself or the girls, I know my lord would welcome you all to stay with us.”

When Roslin smiled faintly and nodded, Sansa suspected that her husband had already made Robb’s queen the same offer of hospitality and protection. She smiled to think of his kind generosity now, even as he lay ill.

“Can we tell Father…about…about what I did?” Eddard asks tentatively now.

Sansa nods solemnly. “Of course, Eddard; but we must tell him when no one else can overhear. We will let your father decide if we should continue to keep it secret,” she tells him. Roose Bolton had also been killed in the war, and so Sansa doubted that his Frey wife or her family would want to avenge her husband’s bastard, particularly when he had been condemned and had evaded justice for years in hiding, but she did not know if anyone else would. “He will be very proud of you, Eddard; as I am.”

“Da loves _me_!” Serena insists now, and Sansa smiles indulgently.

“Yes, little bird: your Da loves you very much, and he will be very happy to see you too.” In truth, Sansa wondered how much her daughter truly remembered her father, but the girl jealously guarded the knowledge imparted by Sansa that her father adored her and thought of her as his good girl. “Will you be a good girl for your Da?” she asks her now.

Serena only smiles coyly now. “May-be yes,” she teases.

“If you would also make him proud, you will needs be a good girl,” Sansa intones primly.

That night at the inn, she finds that she cannot sleep. She is as nervous as she was the first time that she journeyed to Last Hearth; only this time, she knows that she wants the man waiting there for her. She sighs heavily now.

“Can y’not sleep, milady? Shall I fetch you somethin’?” Berena mumbles next to her.

“Oh!” Sansa whispers. “No, Berena, I- I am only nervous…to see my lord again.”

“Nuttin’ t’be nervous ‘bout, m’lady,” she slurs sleepily, “you’re jus’ goin’home.”

“Yes, Berena: you are right,” Sansa agrees; but she still cannot sleep.

The next morning starts badly. It has snowed heavily again overnight, and so the paths long the Kingsroad will be covered with fresh snow through which the sledge will need to be pulled with additional effort: a need that is hampered further with the discovery that one horse is lamed and that they will be delayed until they can buy another.

“They’re likely only to have work-horses in the village, milady,” one guardsman tells her scornfully; but the ginger-haired former stable boy counters him.

“And what other kind of horse d’ye think’ll pull best through fresh snow, then? Never fear, m’lady, I’ll have ye home by nightfall: on my word, I promise,” he insisted to her.

He was good to his word, though by the time they reached the gates of Last Hearth, it was very dark and torches need to be carried into the yard for them by yawning servants. There are not even the familiar sounds of shouted orders; only murmured instructions and grunts as baggage is lifted and carried from the second sledge. Sansa and Berena do their best to rouse her sleeping children.

“Eddard. Serena. We are home now,” Sansa whispers excitedly. Her tummy has all a-flutter now, and she feares she might belch indelicately.

“Welcome home, my lady,” she hears Lord Jon greet her, “and little brother and sister.”

“Smalljon,” Eddard cried, and then his face falls. “You are my only brother now.”

Lord Jon looked at him with a tender weariness. “That is right, little brother: we are just us two now…and our sisters.”

“Lord Jon, please know how much I grieve for my lord’s sons, your brothers,” Sansa tells him sincerely.

He nods politely. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Where…” she begins.

“Where is Father?” Eddard asks as he looks around in the dark yard.

“In his chamber…your chambers, my lady,” he tells Sansa. “The maester was treating him and he fell asleep. I decided not to disturb him until you arrived.”

“That was kind of you, Lord Jon,” Sansa replies, though she is unnerved by his cool demeanour. She realizes that there is still much that is unsaid and uncomfortable between them.

“Come here, little sister,” he takes Serena in his arms. “Let's go find Father.”

Sansa has no choice but to follow him with Eddard to her own rooms. She would have preferred to greet her husband without him. But before she can think of a reason to take Serena from him, he stops in the hallway to greet two men.

“My lady, allow me to introduce Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne and Tormund...Giantsbane.”

The great big man with a full white beard laughs harshly. “Har! He says it like it’s me noble title, he does. I call myself Tall-talker, or Husband of Bears more like. This be the Lord Commander’s sister, then? She be even prettier than he is! Har!”

“Tormund and Prince Oberyn led the ranging that found Father, my lady,” the Smalljon begins.

Sansa is so filled with gratitude that she gasps in a deep breath. “My lords,” she falters, “Forgive me: Prince Oberyn and Ser Tormund: I am eternally grateful-“

“I am honoured to meet you, Lady Umber,” the Dornish prince interrupts her smoothly. He has the sharp-featured and swarthy, dark-haired look of some of his natural daughters, Sansa observes. “We both are honoured. However, you must want to greet your lord husband after so long a separation. Please, do not let us keep you. The formalities can wait…if I am not too bold to suggest,” he offers with a glint in his dark eyes.

“You are very kind, Prince Oberyn: I thank you.” Sansa bows her head and continues through the hallway and up the stairs in the near dark; and she is strangely pleased to see that her instructions for winter rationing are still being followed in her absence. Once they reach the door, Lord Jon opens it but allows Sansa to pass and sets Serena down to follow her and Eddard. He nods to her formally and leaves them.

The chamber is dark and quiet; only the crackle of the fire can be heard and Sansa looks and sees that her husband’s great chair has been moved next to the hearth. He sits in it sleeping beneath a fur coverlet, and her heart fills so suddenly to see him that she catches her breath and feels herself tremble.

She turns to her children and puts a finger to her lips so they know to be quiet and then leads them by the hand to where their father sleeps.

In the light of the hearth fire, Sansa can see that his face is red and ruddy from harsh weather, and that his cheeks look somewhat sunken. His hair is completely gray now; his breaths are wheezy and ragged.

 _He is still unwell,_ she thinks and her heart goes out to him.

She reaches her hand out to touch his beard; and before she can think to stop herself, she leans to place a soft kiss on his lips. She feels his head turns slightly now and sees his eyelids begin to flutter.

“Sansa,” he breathes softly.


	42. Chapter 42

She feels herself smile tenderly.

“Yes, my lord,” she whispers close to him. “It is your Sansa: I have brought our children home. We have come back to you.”

Her husband opens his eyes now and looks at her momentarily before reacting. Then she sees the recognition in his expression and he reaches his hands out to touch her, cupping her face tenderly.

“Sansa? It’s truly you?”

“Yes. Yes, my lord…and Eddard and Serena too. Come children and greet your father,” she tells them in a voice that is almost tearful with happiness.

Eddard runs forward and throws himself at his father to embrace him tightly. “Father,” he cries out into his chest against the fur coverlet.

“Eddard, let me look at you boy.” The Greatjon holds his youngest son by his shoulders and looks at with a proud appraisal. ‘You’re bigger,” he enthuses, “and-“ He breaks off suddenly to cough: a deep rattling cough that racks his body and turns his face even redder. Sansa reaches a hand out to him now in alarm; but he merely shakes his head at her and turns his attention back to their son. “Yes, you’re bigger…and you look more sure of yourself; have you kept up your training, then?”

“Yes, Father,” Eddard begins, “I- I practiced what you taught me…”

“Good, good,” he pats his son now and looks at his daughter standing behind him. “Serena, do you not embrace your Da?

Serena wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “Stinky,” she replies flatly.

“Serena!” Sansa cries. “Do not speak to your father so rudely.”

But the Greatjon is chuckling softly and coughs again. “It’s this blasted mustard poultice,” he says as he pushes down the coverlet and lifts his woolen shirt, revealing cheesecloth bandages smeared with the strong-smelling mixture. “It is stinky, Serena. You can embrace me when I wash it off.”

Serena smiles coyly and swings her arms. “ _May_ -be I will.”

Sansa looks to her husband apologetically. “Forgive her, my lord, but she has become willful. I pray that it is only temporary.”

“She’s an Umber, Sansa,” he tells her with amusement in his voice, “she was bound to be stubborn. You will needs work hard to make her as gentle a lady as you are.”

Sansa smiles at his words but then leans closer to him. “My lord, I am so very sorry for the loss of your younger sons,” she tells him and he drops his eyes and his face settles into melancholy lines. “I grieve for them as you do, for they were your flesh and blood and so as dear to me as you are.”

“I’m sorry too, Father,” Eddard tells him.

He nods and coughs yet again. “Thank you…both of you. I- Thank you,” he murmurs quietly.

There is a knock at the open door and Sansa turns to see Berena standing there.

“Forgive me milady, and milord,” she bows her head to the Greatjon. “I’ve come to fetch the children: they should be abed soon.”

“Very well, Berena. It is late, children: go to bed now and we will all break out fast together in the morning with your father. Would you like that? Good. Say goodnight now.”

Eddard embraces his father again, and even Serena tiptoes closer to kiss his cheek and runs away giggling. Sansa kisses them each goodnight and tells them to sleep well. When they are gone, Sansa removes her cloak and pulls the stool from the dressing table up to sit facing her husband and takes his hands in hers. She lifts one now and places it against her cheek.

“I have missed you so very much, my lord; and I am pleased beyond words to be home with you once again.”

“I’ve missed you too, Sansa,” he coughs repeatedly now before speaking again. “Look at me now,” he says somewhat hoarsely. “Gods be good, you are even more beautiful that I remembered. Come kiss me again,” he growls hungrily.

Sansa leans in to him unhesitatingly and kisses him fully on the lips. He takes her face in his hands again and kisses her back, eventually lifting one hand away to stroke her hair. He breaks away to cough again and then kisses her forehead tenderly.

“Forgive me, Sansa. Blast this cold,” he grumbles and coughs again, and she can feel the rattling deep in his chest.

“Lord Jon wrote that you had taken ill, my lord,” Sansa tells him concernedly. “The cold has settled in your chest.”

“Aye, in my lungs, the maester says and so I suffer his blasted poultices and hot herbal concoctions that taste the same as compost smells; at least he lets me chase them with mulled wine.” He pats he shoulder now. “Best I move back to your old chamber to sleep, Sansa; you will not needs abide my blasted coughing all night that way.”

Sansa clutches at his hands now. “No, my lord, I beg you! We have been so long apart; do not deny me your company. I would lie beside you this night even if I needs lie awake,” she pleads to him. “Do not leave me here alone.”

The maester comes in then and stops when he sees Sansa. “Forgive me my lady,” he bows his head. “Shall I return later?”

“No,” the Greatjon tells him bluntly. “You needs get his poultice off me. It stinks. My own daughter would not come near me, but my lady wife will not leave me, it seems,” he looks at Sansa admiringly. “She has grown braver, I suspect.”

“Lady Umber has always proven herself to be brave and dutiful, if you will permit me to say, my lord. And may I say how happy I am to see you home again in Last Hearth, my lady: you have been sorely missed by the entire household.”

“I thank you, maester. Please tell me of my lord’s illness. It is a chest cold?”

“It is, my lady, and it was quite severe though the men of the Watch have seen the likes before and treated him well and so he is recovering as well as can be expected,” he says almost indulgently, but Sansa sees that he glances between her and her husband uncertainly.

“He likes to fuss at me, just like an old woman; and he won’t let me train in the yard-“ the Greatjon complains.

“It is still far too soon for you to exert yourself in such cold weather, my lord,” the maester explains.

“Yes, yes,” he dismisses him testily. “Just fix this damnable cough so I can hold my breath long enough to kiss my wife properly!” He thunders with furrowed brows, which makes Sansa duck her head and blush happily. “There, you see: she wants me to kiss her too!”

“Alas, my lord, your affliction is quite severe and it will take some more time to recover completely, however I can bring you more licorice root tea with honey, if it please you.”

“It does not please me but if it helps me I will drink it,” he grumbles as the maester bows and leaves their chamber.

“Please tell me how I can help you, my lord,” Sansa asks gently.

“You are here with me now, Sansa,” he says looking her over as though she is a dream realized, “and that is all I would ask of you. But tell me: how fares your family with…with news of the king? May the old gods give him rest,” he intones solemnly.

“Queen-“ and she stops herself. “Roslin is desolate, of course; and she feels that she has failed in that she did not have a son. But she is strong despite her grief,” Sansa tells him, “and I believe that your condolences helped to embolden her strength, my lord. She is quite resolved to stay in Winterfell and to raise Robb’s daughters in the North.”

He nods at her words. “She is…she was a fine queen; she…they did not have enough time: that is all. It was not enough time,” he repeats dispiritedly. “The King of the North is no more.”

Sansa squeezes his hands tightly. “I know how very much Robb valued your loyalty, my lord. You were his fiercest and most true bannerman.”

“He was my king,” he replies simply. “I knew that before he called himself so; and so I called him that myself. _Why shouldn’t we rule ourselves again,_ I asked; and they all agreed. The King in the North,” he repeats reverently.

Sansa drops her eyes and pulls her hand away to wipe a tear from her cheek. When she does her husband reaches to lift her chin and look at him. “Forgive me, Sansa,” he tells her gently, “he was your brother; not just a king.”

Sansa sniffles, “He was your good-brother, just as your sons were my good-sons. We have both lost family, as well as our king; just as so many have lost family and good men. But we can comfort each other as best we can, my lord: I- I feel that our lives have been full of losses and that is the best we can hope to do for each other.”

He leans forward to embrace her now and she clings to him as she whispers closely: “I thank the gods that I have not lost you, and that we are together again with our children, my lord. I- I was so very distraught when I received word that you were missing. Had it not been for the children… I would not have wanted to be without you, my lord.”

“ _Sh-sh_ , Sansa: do not think on it now. I am sorry that you were frightened; but you promised me that you would carry on, did you not?” he reminds her and she nods obediently even as she clutches the edges of his heavy shirt. As she does, she feels a thread come loose at the neck and looks to see what damage she has done.

“What is it, Sansa?” the Greatjon asks as she plucks at the heavy thread; but as she draws it between her fingers, she sees that he has a cord tied around his neck. She runs her fingers down the cord until she discovers a small leather pouch hanging from around his neck. She looks at him quizzically now. She has never known him to sport any such thing before.

“My lord?”

He smiles at her. “Don’t you remember, Sansa? It’s your heart. You bid me keep it close and guard it well,” he murmurs closely, “and I have not parted with it since you left.”

He tugs at the opening now with his great hands and pinches the contents of the pouch between his finger and thumb. When he withdraws his hand, Sansa sees that it is the braided lock of hair and scroll she had left on his bolster. Her hands fly to her face to cover her mouth as she gasps in astonishment. Her great big, loud and rough husband has suddenly shown her all the romantic devotion that she had once dreamed of when she was a girl. She had thought then it would have come from a gallant prince or a pretty knight in painted armor, with flowery word of declaration and delicate affection; but she had been wrong. She realizes that she has never felt so loved as a woman as she does at this moment. She wishes to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him passionately; but he sputters now and begins to cough again and so turns his head away from her until he subsides.

“Blast,” he mutters again. “Where’s that maester?”

But she does not answer him; Sansa only gazes at him speechlessly until he chuckles again.

“You think me a fool,” he mocks himself softly, “and I expect that I am. Here, Sansa,” he says as he reaches to remove the pouch, “you said you would claim it from me when you returned home-“

“…where my heart dwells,” she finishes softly. She looks at the pouch when he presses it into her hand, and then brushes it with her thumb. “Will- will you not keep it, my lord? You needs not, or course…to have my heart: you shall have that always,” she whispers as she reaches to stroke her fingers down his bearded face.

The Greatjon turns his head to kiss her hand but then raises his eyes to the doorway.

“Ah, there he is,” he observes. “Come get this mess off me, man: I feel like a haunch of meat being seasoned for roasting.”

As he leans forward to remove his shirt for the maester, Sansa rises and walks to their bed where she hangs the little pouch from the knob of her bedpost by winding the string around it. Even from across the room, she sees the twinkle in her husband’s eyes as she turns back to him. She walks to the washstand to empty water from the pitcher into the basin and then soaks and wrings out a towel before walking back to the hearth.

The maester has finished removing the strips of cheesecloth covered in the messy poultice and has gathered them in an empty basin. The Greatjon finishes the tea the man has brought him, and makes a sour face as he hands him back the cup.

“The wine and ale merchants have naught to fear from that boiled horse piss,” he grumbles. “Begging your pardon, Sansa,” he adds. “Their trade is safe as long as that wretched concoction is the alternative.”

Sansa smiles to see that he is still very much himself despite his illness, and nods her agreement.

“You may leave us,” she tells the maester, “I will help my lord to clean up.”

The master bows his head and takes his leave of them. When Sansa turns back to her husband, he is looking at her with raised brows.

“Do not look upon me so strangely, my lord. I merely wish to have your company all to myself after so very long.”

“Very well, Sansa, but you needn’t tend me like a nurse. Gods be good, I still have the strength to wash myself.”

“Do you still have the strength to stop me from tending you, my lord?” she teases him as she sets to washing his back with slow and gentle circles. He rumbles appreciatively and stretches forward.

“I may have the strength but I seem to have quite suddenly lost the will,” he murmurs as she continues her ministrations. She rubs his skin down gently but firmly with the damp cloth, continuing to make slowly circles up his back and around his neck. She sits in front of him again and strokes the cloth slowly across his chest and further down his abdomen. Sansa glances up occasionally to meet his eyes as he gazes at her longingly but then he suddenly grabs her wrists and startles her.

“Sansa,” he begins and stops. He looks ill-at-ease.

“Is there something wrong, my lord?”

“I- The illness…” he huffs in exasperation and embarrassment. “Sansa…I am not strong enough yet to…to be a husband to you…as I would like.”

“Oh,” she realizes suddenly. “Forgive me, my lord…I…I still wish to tend you,” she tells him though she is finished washing him of the poultice. She grips the cloth: a gesture of futility. “You…you will not leave me though? I still long to lie next to you…in our bed.”

He smiles wanly. “If you like, Sansa. I hope that my coughing will not disturb your sleep.”

She shakes her head now. “It will not. Mayhaps if we both lie awake…we can talk of our time apart,” she takes his hand encouragingly now. She wants to tell him of Arya’s baby, of Nymeria, of Bran’s greensight and of Theon’s attack on Winterfell. She wants to tell him of her study of midwifery and share all that she has learned.

But his eyes dart away to look emptily into the middle distance.

“The things I have seen, Sansa…you do not wish to hear about.”


	43. Chapter 43

The Greatjon’s snores are louder than she remembers, but she knows this is likely caused by his chest cold. His breathing is heavy and wheezing; and she tells herself to speak with the maester outside of her husband’s hearing so that he will speak frankly. She wants an account of exactly how he became lost and for how long he was missing. She remembers Lord Jon saying that the two men: Prince Oberyn and the big Giant-talker, she thinks he called himself, are the men who found him beyond the Wall. Mayhaps they would speak with her as well.

She surmises that the great big man is a wildling, and she wonders how he came to be at Last Hearth. Despite any debt of gratitude her husband may owe the man, wildlings have never been welcome by the Umbers; not after what happened to Mors’ daughter especially. She must remember also to ask her husband in the morning.

She turns onto her side now and faces him.  She is tempted to reach out to him, but she restrains herself. He needs his rest; and he may think that she wants him to take her. She does: she does with all her heart and her body. She wants him to take her and to make her his and to blot out every bad thing that has happened: their separation, Theon’s treachery, the face of the Bolton bastard, the image of her son holding a bloodied dagger, Robbs’ death, her mother’s grief and the horrible, empty space in her that is left from not having her Lady. But he cannot, he has told her; and she would not make him feel less than a man for wanting what he cannot give her. She will wait, as befits a lady, and she knows that it will be worth the wait to have him strong and hearty again. She smiles tenderly at him and sighs to remember his gentle and passionate nature and his boundless hunger for her.

His snoring stops abruptly and his breathing hitches. Sansa props herself on her elbow just as he erupts with loud coughing, and the bed shakes with his effort as the deep, wet rattling sounds rack his massive body. He sucks in a gasp of air and begins again, and Sansa throws back the furs and runs to the washstand to pour a cup of water and she returns to the bed to offer it to him.

Her husband reaches for it gratefully. “Thank you, Sansa. Forgive me for waking you. Are you certain that-“

She climbs back into bed next to him now. “I am quite certain, my lord; and you did not wake me. I was watching you sleep, and my mind is full of all the many things I would say to you. But we have time, my lord. Pray go back to sleep: you needs your rest,” she soothes him and runs her hand into his hair, pushing back the thick, gray shaggy locks from his face.

He catches her hand and holds it in his. “Tell me then, Sansa. Tell me of one thing: the best thing that has happened since we parted. Surely you must have something good to tell me.”

“I have, my lord,” Sansa whispers happily. “My sister Arya is with child; and Lord Harrion travels to Winterfell to take her back to Karhold himself. She should be home with him within a moon’s turn.”

“That is the best possible news then. A new life. A new Stark; even if it is a Karstark,” he jeers lightly. “Will you travel to Karhold for her lying-in?”

Sansa had not considered that, but she thinks now that she would like to be with Arya. “If my sister calls for me when her time comes, my lord; and with your leave, then of course I will go to her.”

“You shall have my leave to go, Sansa; you seem so very excited that I could never deny you leave to visit your own sister. But forgive me now if I remember that you have not been close these many years,” he ventures.

“No, we have not been,” she laments. “I- I thought that she resented me…for all that happened,” she begins.

“But she did not. Did I not tell you that no one blamed you, Sansa? I am pleased that you learned for yourself.”

“As am I, my lord; and I thank you for your kind words, and your leave to visit Arya. Mayhaps,” she ventures, “we can all go and visit Karhold. I would love for you to meet Arya. She is so very Northern, like my father…like my Aunt Lyanna.”

He pats her hand now. “We needs wait for an invitation, Sansa; but I will go if it pleases you.”

“Forgive me, my lord. I forget that you do not care for Lord Karstark…and yet you encouraged Lord Jon to marry Lady Alys once,” she reminds him.

He snorts with derision. “I would encourage him to marry a bear or an aurochs if it meant he would beget heirs,” he grumbles. “He is the only son I have left but for Eddard-“ he stops suddenly and Sansa moves closer to reach her arm across  his chest and hold him closer.

“Will you speak of them, my lord?” she whispers closely. “I would have you unburden yourself to me, so that I may share your sorrow.”

He pats her hand again absently. “Not yet, Sansa,” he says tightly. “In time. Lady Alys is betrothed now, have you not heard?”

“No, my lord.”

He scoffs mildly. “She is to marry one of the wildlings; not a true wildling but a Thenn, their leader in fact. I believe they call him Magnar. They are somewhat more civilized, or so they claim: with a lord leader and laws. Their people have been given the New Gift, to put them between the true wildlings and the Northerners. The wildlings will have the Gift itself, closer to the Wall, and will be permitted to leave only if they agree to follow our laws. The Lord Commander thought it the best compromise towards the Lords and people in the Far North, and we agreed.”

“That would seem wise, my lord. And did Jon broker this marriage? I am surprised Lord Karstark consented,” Sansa marvels.

“The Thenns and wildlings proved themselves very capable in the fighting; and as we lost men, they joined out own ranks for rangings. They know the land; and they knew our foe better than we did…not that it helped any. They were brave, but only the dragons saved us in the end,” he trails off quietly and speaks not more though Sansa looks to him expectantly.

“And had you met this Magnar, my lord?”

“Hm? Yes. A good, young man; speaks the Old Tongue but has been learning some of our common tongue. A proud, old line and so old Rickard agreed since she’ll be the lady of the lands. They’re to be called House Thenn and they will needs build a keep over time, and start working the land in Spring.” He yawns hugely now.

“Forgive me, my lord: I keep you from sleep-“

“There is a wildling in the castle,” he tells her suddenly, “doubtless you will meet him tomorrow. Good man, so don’t fear him.”

“I- I met the man when I arrived, and Prince Oberyn of Dorne as well, my lord; though I confess that I am surprised to find a wildling welcome at Last Hearth; but Lord Jon said that he saved…that he found you, my lord.”

“Found me and saved me,” he intones solemnly. “Uncle Mors may grudge him being here all he likes but I’m lord of the castle and so he can leave if he does not like it. We’ll all have to learn to live with wildlings so we’d all better start sooner than later.”

“Y-yes, my lord,” she agrees quietly.

There is a long pause and Sansa thinks that he means to sleep again until he speaks once more.

“She came back,” he tells her quietly. “Mors’ girl, I mean; though she’s a girl no longer.”

Sansa lifts her head in astonishment. “She is here? At Last Hearth?”

“No. Come and gone,” he states flatly. “This man Tormund knew her wildling husband, and so sent for her when they brought me back. She looks a wildling, of course: tough and strong, but I could still see it was her. Told me her place was with her family now but I said she should come at least to see her father,” he sighs now.

“And?” Sansa prompts even though she suspects from his tone that her visit did not end happily.

“I’m a fool. I thought it would make the old man happy. But he was angry that she’d never escaped; and angry that she was not staying. So she left, saying she had sons who were to settle in the Gift and would have a place for her.”

“And her husband?”

“Dead. Dead like so many others. I told her she could return any time she wished but…” he trails off.

Sansa sighs herself now. “You uncle has been angry and hurt for so long now, my lord; I fear he does not know any different anymore. I…I fear sometimes the same fate for my mother. Her grief is such that it has made her harden her heart, like stone; and she was once so soft and loving.” She does not tell him that she feared the same fate for herself if he had not been found.

He pats her reassuringly. “Your mother has her children, Sansa; and that is more than Mors has had these many years. Surely she is gentle with Robb’s children and your younger brothers; and I trust that your mother hasn’t taken to drink.”

“No, my lord, she has not,” she says sadly.

“Mayhaps you’d like her to,” he jests when he hears her reply, and Sansa giggles despite herself.

“She will be the lady of Winterfell again, since Bran is unmarried,” she tells him now. “He…he fears that he will not be respected and so I pray that having my mother stand with him will help. She will remind people that he is my father’s son.”

“At least he will not have Lord Bolton eyeing his seat as warden; though who knows how that Frey wife of his will raise his heir. Those Freys are as cunning and covetous as Roose was. He’ll needs watch out for the Ironborn though,” he advises Sansa.

“I- I think not, my lord,” Sansa begins cautiously. “Theon…Theon Greyjoy is dead.”

“Dead? How and when did this happen? Was he drowned at sea?”

“He- he died trying to attack Winterfell, my lord. He _did_ attack Winterfell…while I was there.”

“What?” The Greatjon exclaims and tries to sit up now but his coughing returns to take his breath and voice away. Sansa pats and rubs his back as he tries to calm himself. “Thank you, Sansa; but how did this happen? Was anyone else hurt? Did Queen Asha mean to take the North after Robb had given her fair trading terms for their kingdoms to live peaceably side-by-side?”

“No. No, my lord; we…we were not hurt, and the queen had naught to do with it. It was all Theon, and a small party of Northmen. He only meant to take…to take…” she swallows now and tries to tell him the truth. _He only meant to take me._

“Take Winterfell without taking the North? I knew him to be grasping, but not such a fool as _that_ ,” he ponders.

Sansa realizes her mistake: she should not have mentioned Theon to her husband at this time of night. The whole truth, including their son’s part, will needs wait until morning light. “Yes, he was a fool; and now he is dead. But it had naught to do with Queen Asha. Forgive me, my lord, I have kept you from your much-needed rest. With your leave, we shall talk of it on the morrow.”

“Very well, Sansa; but I expect you to leave out nothing. I want to hear how _just-missed_ Greyjoy missed again, and paid with his life. Well, it served him right, I’ve no doubt,” he pronounces authoritatively.

“Yes, my lord,” is all Sansa replies for now.

……..

They break their fast in the chamber the next morning with Eddard and Serena. Their son is attentive and answers his father’s questions about his training and his visit with his mother’s family; Serena puffs her lips and shows signs of boredom, interrupting her brother or kicking the legs of the table. Sansa becomes impatient.

“Serena, you needs sit still and be quiet or I will ask Berena to take you back to the nursery-“

“No-ooooo,” Serena pouts and tries to snatch a biscuit off a plate without asking first.

“Come then,” Sansa stands and holds her hand out. “If you will not behave as a lady, then you will not dine in company.”

“No, I don’t go!” she cries as she throws up her arms.

Eddard chastises his sister. “You’re mean to Mother, Serena; and you never embraced Father.”

“So? Da loves me!”

The Greatjon picks up the plate and offers his daughter the biscuit that she had coveted, and she snatches it away in triumph.

“You are right, Serena,” he tells her. “Da loves you, no matter if you behave badly…as you are doing now,” he intones and she pouts at him again. “I never cared to be told what to do either, but as I grew older I learned to do my duty.” He holds up a finger now and slowly lowers it to point it at her. “You will learn the same. You are the high-born daughter of a lord of the North and a child of House Umber, and you are the granddaughter of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell…and you _will_ respect your lady mother, and learn to be a lady yourself. You will do as she and Berena tell you. I will always love you, Serena; but you must make me proud of you as well.”  He smiles fondly at her. “I know my little Umber girl can make me proud. Now finish eating your biscuit, and then go back to the nursery.”

Serena stares at her father steadily, and Sansa can see that she is testing them. When she begins to slowly chew her biscuit, Sansa knows that her husband has won her over. Serena slides down from her chair and goes to kiss her father’s cheek.

“That’s my good girl, Serena. Always remember that your Da loves you. But your Da also asks one thing of you: _always_ respect your mother…because I love her too.”

“Da loves Mama best?” she asks secretly in a whisper.

The Greatjon seems to mull over her question and then leans down to answer: “Da loved your mother before you and your brother were even born, Serena. Da loved Mama _first_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Sharkaria and her story 'Seven and Two' for her portrayal of a rather pig-headed little daughter of Sansa's who rudely demands a biscuit and gets lovingly told off by her father, who in that story is Sandor.


	44. Chapter 44

The Greatjon stares in angry astonishment now as Sansa tells him of the attack on Winterfell. Eddard sits hunched over in his chair watching his father’s reactions.

“That filthy squid dared lay hands on Lady Umber!” He shouts and coughs until Sansa is not certain which is making his face redder. “How did he think he would get away with it? Even his queen would not have protected him: she and King Robb had a pact! And her cur whelp of a brother breaks it and tries to abscond with _my wife_!”

“My lord, please: you must not excite yourself so. I fear for your health,” she implores him.

He sputters and wheezes and his brow is deeply furrowed and she clearly sees the rage burning in his eyes. She has seen a similar wild rage burn in another man’s eyes once, in King’s Landing, and it frightened her too.

“Who killed the blasted squid then: was it Cassel? Good man, Rodrik,” he nods approvingly and thumps the table.

“H-his own man killed him, my lord: he…he said he wanted me for himself,” she glances at her son and away, embarrassed. “He said he was going to hunt me for…for sport,” she stammers.

“Gods be good,” her husband mutters in shock. “That would be the work of Bolton’s bastard. They say he committed such crimes against common girls, but they never found him after Cassel killed his man, the one who stank. He left Lady Hornwood to starve to death in a tower in her own castle. We all thought he had got clean away during the war.” He keeps looking at her when she does not speak again. “What is it, Sansa? Did he hurt you?” He glances at Eddard as well and back to her.

“N-no, my lord; h-he was killed too…before he could hurt me,” she tells him as she wrings her hands together in anticipation of telling him who killed the man.

“I had to, Father: he was going to hurt Mother. I had to protect her…like you told me!” Eddard blurts suddenly. “I- I used the dagger you gave me…to kill him.”

The Greatjon’s eyes go wide and his breath leaves him is a wheezy rush. He takes his son by the shoulders and leans in to him. “You killed a man…to save for mother?” he demands.

“Yes, Father: I _had_ to! There was no one else,” he pleads with tear-filled eyes. But his father pulls him close and embraces him tightly.

“My boy! My brave boy!” he exclaims in wonder. “You…you saved your mother! Thank the gods!” He leans back at arms’ length to look down on him proudly. “You did good, Eddard. Gods but I’m proud of you. How old are you, now? Six?”

“Almost, Father…”

“Almost…” He chuckles and then laughs and then coughs noisily. “Almost six and you’ve killed your first man,” he murmurs solemnly. “That can be a hard thing, Eddard. Are you scared?”

Eddard furrows his brow and looks the image of his father. “No,” he insists angrily. “He was going to hurt mother. I’m glad he’s dead. I’m glad I killed him. But…mother thinks bad men might hurt me for killing him. She said tell no one but you.”

The Greatjon glances up at Sansa and then nods in agreement. “Aye, that’s best; we don’t know who hid this man for so long. He must have had loyal friends somewhere. We can tell your brother though: he’ll protect you as I will.” He slaps the boy on the shoulder heartily. “He’ll want to hear all about it. After all, he has trained you as well. Sansa?”

“I will fetch him for you, my lord.”

Sansa sits and listens as her son recounts his deed to his father and brother, and she watches as their astonishment turns to pride and love for her boy.

“You did everything we taught you, little brother,” Smalljon tells him, “and you did it well. You have a lot more to learn; but you have already learned to make use of what you know. You’ll be a great warrior one day: fearless and strong. We’re all terribly proud of you, Eddard.” He looks to his father now who nods back. “Stand now, Eddard.”

The three men stand and the Greatjon looks down on his youngest boy. “You know we don’t have knights here in the North, boy; but we have just as much honor and pride as they do. More, I’ll wager; and there’s none that can boast of what you did for your mother, and you deserved to be honored yourself, so…kneel, boy.”

Eddard looks to his mother and then does as he is bid. His father takes his greatsword and pulls it from its scabbard in one easy motion. When he stands before his son he lowers the blade and lightly touches his son’s shoulder with it.

“Lord Eddard Umber, you knelt as a boy; now rise and stand as a man.”

Sansa watches her son lifts his chin and looks up to his father with pride and then stands tall. Then his small face breaks into such a smile of gushing happiness that she feels her heart fill for him to have this acknowledgment from his father and older brother.

_My boy. My brave boy but…still a boy. Do not grow up so quickly,_ she thinks now; but she holds her arms out to him when he turns to her and embraces him fiercely. “My brave son,” she croons as she cradles him.

“I’m a man now, Mother,” he mumbles into her neck and, for the first time in his young life, he pulls away from her.

Though her heart breaks a little now, she smiles bravely and cups his cheek lovingly. “Yes, you are,” she agrees solemnly, “but I hope that I can still be your mother, Eddard.”

His sweet face droops a little now as he asks uncertainly: “Won’t you always be my mother?”

Sansa smiles in relief. “Yes, Eddard: I will _always_ be your mother.”

…….

The maester knocks at the door now and the Greatjon grumbles yet again.  “Another blasted poultice. Sansa, please see to our guests until I am done here.”

“Both Prince Oberyn and the wildling Tormund are in the yard, Father; I should be as well,” Smalljon tells him. “You too, Eddard; you still have much to learn. Go get into warm furs now.”

Sansa checks her reflection in the mirror on her dressing table. “I needs make rounds of the castle then, my lord; I have been gone so very long and should consult with your uncles again. Then I shall meet our guests. Will you join us in the hall or solar?”

He coughs into his great fist before answering. “As soon as I am done here; I’m still lord,” he answers.

Sansa curtseys and smiles sweetly for him, and then follows after her son and good-son into the hallway and closing the door behind her. There she is unnerved to see Lord Jon waiting for her, but she smiles primly and nods to him.

“Lord Jon, I thank you for all you do for Eddard-“

But he stands to block her way and takes her by her elbows so they are standing close together. Sansa looks around sharply to ascertain that no one else is near.

“You see how sick he is, don’t you?” he asks her. “We may soon have our chance.”

Sansa understands immediately his meaning and recoils, but he is holding her arms too tightly.

“It…it is a chest cold: that is all. He will recover,” she insists.

“Aye, from the cold…but he was many days and nights beyond the Wall wandering in and breathing in that cold : you don’t understand that it was like breathing daggers of ice into your lungs when…when _they_ came.”

“He is strong,” she counters.

“He is,” he admits. ”That is how he lived; but for how long? His heart, his lungs…the strain…how long do you believe he has? It may not be long… _my lady_ ,” he speaks the term tenderly, as he once did when they were lovers.

Sansa stares at him a full moment and then tears her eyes away. “No. No, he will be well. He told me so. He-“

“And do you believe that Greatjon Umber would ever admit to weakness?” he argues in a whisper. “And to his wife…his pretty, young wife?”

She looks up at him now, with resolve. “Yes, I am his wife. I will remain his wife; and I will be only _his_ for however long his life may last; be it a fortnight or forty years. I swore that on the old gods and I mean to keep my words. I had thought that you had sworn the same,” she challenges.

“I don’t ask you to break your vows…again,” he adds and his meaning cuts her deeply. “I mean after he is gone. We can be free to marry. Your brother, the king, is dead…gods grant him rest; and the other one-“

“Lord Brandon Stark of Winterfell,” she corrects him firmly.

“Lord Brandon Stark of Winterfell cannot force you to wed again against your will-“

“I never married against my will,” Sansa insists though she knows that this is true only because she had never voiced her reluctance to her family then, “only without understanding. If they had only told me why they had sent me here…” she stops herself now: she knows she cannot change what has happened, she can only decide how she acts now. “I will needs obey my brother Bran as much as I ever obeyed Robb, my king.” She can say this with conviction because, in her mind, Sansa knows Bran would never do anything to hurt her; and would stop anyone who tried. If and when she married again, it would be her choice: she did not doubt it.

“And if another like Theon Greyjoy comes for you, where will you hide then…behind a crippled boy? Do you not see how men want you?” He looks down the length of her tall body and back again. “I can give you my protection, and you can remain at Last Hearth…with your children.”

Sansa’s heart stops as soon as she realizes the truth of his words. If she were to remarry, her new lord would not likely want to raise her children; and Lord Jon could decide to keep them at Last Hearth as would be his right as the lord of House Umber. She would have no right and no say in the welfare of her own children.

“That…that would be your right, Lord Jon, when you are the Lord of Last Hearth; and I know that you will treat them well…as you always have,” she tells him though her heart has turned cold inside her.

He snorts now and lets go of her arms. “Ever courteous,” he observes archly. “Fear not, my lady: I would never turn you or your children away from Last Hearth. You will be my father’s widow and mother to his children; and I love them as much because they are yours as I do because they are my own brother and sister.”

“I- I thank you,” she replies humbly, but she is fearful nevertheless. He once wished his own father dead; she prays he does not wish the same again.

“I pray that he has the long life you hope for, my lady…he is my own father, after all. I had only hoped… But I see we do not share the same hopes anymore.”

“Lord Jon,” she calls softly as he begins to turn away from her. “I pray that you find the happiness that you deserve…I only know that it can never be with me, for I will carry the burden of my betrayal for all my life and-“

“And I am that betrayal,” he states flatly. “I thank you for the truth, my lady.” He bows his head respectfully, and leaves her standing in the hallway.

…….

Once she has regained her composure, Sansa searches for Mors Umber. She finds him standing in a doorway and glaring malevolently into the yard where the wildling man Tormund is sparring with the garrison. She can tell by how he sways on his feet that he is already in his cups, though it is not yet midday. Realizing that he will be of little help to her this day, she asks then if he will guide her through the castle the next morning.

He turns unsteadily towards her now. “It’s still standing, isn’t it? I’ve done my duty as castellan,” he glances and looks hard at the wildling man. “I’ve done right to keep us safe.”

“I do not doubt you for you have always done your best duty by all in Last Hearth; and I thank you most gratefully. Would that I could have stayed and helped, but my lord commanded otherwise,” she placates him.

“Your lord commanded otherwise alright,” he snarls, and she smells the strong ale on his sour breath. “We should have killed them all years ago; or let the White walkers kill them and then the dragons burn them all. No good will come of this…and it’s be on the head of the Lord Commander: a bastard through and through.”

Sansa stares back levelly at him; but she is more broken-hearted for him and his unhappiness than she is angry about his words towards her husband and Jon. “We will needs discuss the choice of a new maid as well,” she continues politely. “My own girl stayed in Winterfell to be wed to a villager. “

“Of course she did,” he jeers. “Women are always leaving. No loyalty. No heart. No honour.” He sneers angrily and sways again as he looks down on her. “’Least you came back,” he admits grudgingly. “Mind you don’t get carried off too,” he barks.

Disheartened now, Sansa turns away from the yard and back towards the hall. She could return to assist her husband in their chambers but instead she walks aimlessly around the castle, nodding greetings to all those she meets until she finds herself in the North tower. She could climb the stairs to the storerooms and inspect the rations by herself but she does not. She sits instead on the bottom step and stares emptily at the spot where she fell. She thinks of her loss, and finds that it still hurts. She remembers Theon looking her over with want, just as Lord Jon had done when he had…proposed marriage? But he had never said that he loved her; and she wonders if he ever truly did.

_Do you not see how men want you?_ She cringes now and shakes her head: she does not want to be wanted, not like that…without love. She still wants to be loved; Cersei be damned; and she knows what love is now. It is not meeting secretly in a tower. It is not hiding and lying and fearing discovery. Love held her in his arms when she discovered that she may be barren. Love comforted her when she unburdened herself of her grief and pain from Kings Landing and after. Love carried a lock of her hair in a pouch around his neck through the killing frozen cold beyond the Wall for days and days, fighting to return to her and their children. She wants nothing now but to be true to that love, and the past forgotten; but she cannot forget.

_No loyalty. No heart. No honour. S_ he remembers Mors’ bitter words, and how they once would have been true of her.

She feels the tears rise in her, and chokes then back down.

_I took a man’s head. I am stronger than this._

She stands instead, and goes to find her husband.


	45. Chapter 45

 “Sansa!” her husband greets her heartily when she enters the solar. “Come meet our guest,” he tells her and then coughs wetly into one hand. He holds a pewter goblet in the other. Sansa rushes to him concernedly but he waves her worry away.

“Nothing this mulled wine won’t settle,” he jests mildly.

“As you say, my lord,” she smiles for him.

“Lady Umber,” the man she knows is Prince Oberyn greets her formally now. “It is my great honour to meet you at last: the wife of the formidable Lord Umber, and the sister of the King in the North. I am Prince Oberyn Martell, of Dorne.” He offers his hand to her and when she takes it, he raises it and bows elegantly over her hand.

“I am also greatly honoured to meet you, Prince Oberyn: I had the pleasure of the company of your daughters when I sailed from Kings Landing to White Habor many years ago. I am deeply indebted to your most gracious Prince Doran for sending the ship for me, so that I could return home to my family. Please know that I have never forgotten his kindness and generosity, and never shall.”

“I will be pleased to tell him so, my lady. He was happy to be of service to your brother, King Robb, after he defeated the Lannisters at Casterly Rock,” his face darkens as he speaks of them. “It was Tywin Lannister who gave the order to kill my dear sister Elia and her children when Kings Landing was sacked during the Rebellion. We were of course very glad that your family could return Lord Tywin the favour,” he sneers dangerously. “And of course,” he turns to the Greatjon, “I wished to personally thank the man who killed the Mountain; though I admit it was a pleasure I had hoped to enjoy myself. I had planned to decorate our walls with his head.”

“He lost his head right enough, Prince Oberyn; I saw to that,” the Greatjon says mildly, “and no man ever deserved it more.”

“May he burn in all seven hells,” Prince Oberyn replies hotly. “Forgive me, Lady Umber, but-”

“There is naught to forgive, Prince Oberyn,” she assures him gently. “I know of his many crimes, and of the heartbreak and destruction they have caused throughout his terrible life. I am deeply sorry that it should have touched your family as well, and so very tragically.”

His eyes narrow at her, and Sansa sees that he is taking her measure.

“I see that you are as kind and gentle as my daughters have said, Lady Umber. They marveled that someone who suffered such torment and suffering at the hands of the Lannisters should have remained so sweet and innocent.”

Sans ducks her head demurely now. “I fear I have not the skills of your remarkable daughters, Prince Oberyn; they are strong and resolute women. I have great admiration for them.”

He smiles graciously, which only serves to heighten the effect of his sharp features. “There is also strength in kindness, my lady, and in not breaking under torment. I see that you have that strength.”

“There, Sansa,” her husband interjects. “Have I not told you the same?”

“You have, my lord,” she smiles to remember his always encouraging words to her.

“Hrphm,” he coughs once, “my lady _is_ a lady…but with the heart of a wolf,” he boasts to his guest.

Sansa blushes now and speaks again with Prince Oberyn. “Please accept again my gratitude for having aided in the search for my lord husband. I am once again indebted to your family for their assistance, and happy to be so. But, forgive me, there was another-“

“Har! ‘Tis meself you mean to thank, I suspect. Tormund, I’m called; I’ve many other names, some that aren’t fit to say before a fine lady like yourself, so Giantsbane will have to serve, though I use Thunderfist more,” the big man announces loudly as he enters the solar with the Smalljon and young Eddard.

“Mother, Tormund is a _wildling,”_ he tells her excitedly. He’s from beyond the Wall and he fought the Others with Father and the Night’s Watch. They’re not our enemies anymore, he says; and Smalljon agreed.”

“Not your enemies: true; but we’re not kneelers either, though your pretty little queen has them dragons, har! Only slaves kneel, I told her; and didn’t she free slaves in the East, I ask you. So she asks me if I’d rather my folks were slaves to White Walkers. Har! True that; but a slave’s a slave either way.”

“All of Westeros has accepted Queen Daenerys Targaryen claim,” Sansa notes now. “Even King… _Lord_ Renly relinquished his throne to her and returned to his seat at Storm’s End; how is it that the wildlings have not…not bent the knee as well?”

“Our terms are with the Lord Crow, your very own brother…though you’d not know it from looks, though he be right pretty in his own right, har! ‘Tis kissed by fire, you are, and your boy here too: that’d be lucky by the Free Folks’ reckoning, though your King weren’t so lucky, but a prettier-than-most walking corpse he made as well-“

Sansa gasps now and she stares at the wildling man in horror. The Greatjon rises immediately and sets to coughing.

“Sansa? It’s alright, Sansa. Here, come to me,” he chokes out between wet rattles. “Come now,” he embraces her comfortingly.

“Oh,” is all she can manage to say before tears well up in her eyes. “Oh, poor Robb,” she sobs, and her husband holds her closer and strokes her hair. “Forgive me-“ she apologizes for her outburst.

“As you have said there is naught to forgive in such circumstances, my lady,” Prince Oberyn interjects smoothly and glances meaningfully at the wildling.

The big man Tormund comes to stand before her now and she sees that though he is massive through the chest and belly, he is not so tall; especially when standing next to her husband. “Forgive me too: I’m no lord with fine manners but I’ll take a knife to me own throat before I make such a fine woman cry from grief.  We’re too used to them creatures beyond the Wall; and I had to see to my own boy once when he was one o’ them. I know it be hard; and worse if it be new to you.”

Sansa nodded timidly. “I- I thank you. I should have known only…” She had not given thought to the manner of Robb’s death; it had been bad enough that he was gone.

“I would have told you in time, Sansa; only it seemed too much to start with,” her husband murmurs, and she nods again.

“Th-thank you, my lord.” She sniffles and wipes her eyes now and sees they are all looking sadly at her. “I- I think I would speak with the maester,” she tells them, “and leave you to enjoy your ales,” she tries to smile graciously.

“Mayhaps some mulled wine would ease your mind, Lady Umber,” Prince Oberyn offers now.

“Thank you, but I wished to speak to him of another matter. My lord, I may require your leave,” she tells her husband now, “for I wish to have access to the maester’s scrolls and books about childbearing. Berena has been teaching me midwifery, and I had studied with Maester Luwin at Winterfell.”

The Greatjon studies her with a quizzical look. “Midwifery? Whatever for, Sansa? We have always had a midwife and a maester at Last Hearth; there is no need for you to take this task upon yourself.”

“Berena has said there is always a lack of proper, trained midwives, particularly in the far North, my  lord.”

“It is a useful skill for a woman to have, regardless of birth; if you will permit me to say so, Lord Umber,” Prince Oberyn offers easily. “It is not called the bloody bed for naught, I am told; though none of my daughters’ mothers were lost in childbirth, I would hate for one of my own dear daughters to suffer for lack of knowledge. If you permit, my lord, I still have books from my days at the Citadel and I would be pleased to offer them to Lady Umber.”

Sansa looks to her husband for approval now and though he seems unconvinced, he accepts nevertheless. “Well, if my lady truly wishes to learn…”

“I am grateful to you again, Prince Oberyn,” Sansa thanks him.

“I will see that they are shipped to you once I return to Dorne, my lady.” He smiles with another flash of white teeth and dark eyes.

Sans smiles now and the Greatjon smiles in turn to see it; then he cups her face with one hand and caresses her cheek with his thumb. “Tell the maester he’s to share all his books and scrolls with you then,” he tells her. “So long as you are happy, Sansa.”

She visits the maester then, and discovers that he has the same reservations about her study as Maester Luwin.

“You needs have no fear with the care you will receive at Last Hearth, my lady,” he says somewhat defensively.

“I know that most certainly, and I am grateful to you maester, however I understand that there is little in the way of such care for many commons, particularly in more remote areas here in the far North.”

He snorts in judgement now. “Some that claim to know midwifery have attended births of naught more than cats, dogs or pigs, my lady; sometimes believing one has knowledge can be more dangerous than knowing one is ignorant. It is true that many suffer and die but it can only be the will of the gods, my lady; and who are we to argue with that?”

“Y-yes,” Sansa answers, “but surely as a learned man, maester, you know of the benefits of knowledge and the wisdom that comes from experience.”

“Indeed, my lady; but women cannot study at the Citadel, and so all of their knowledge is tainted by… _emotion_ , and not grounded is true science as befits the person with _true_ knowledge,” he informs her ponderously.

“I see,” Sansa replies noncommittally. “Pray then, maester, what is the science of my lord’s condition? You have said it is a chest cold but quite severe…”

“The severity is due to his prolonged exposure to the cold, and an extreme cold it was, even for a Northman. Lord Umber is stronger than most men fortunately however the strain on his breathing _was_ excessive, certainly worse than I have seen, my lady.”

“But…he will recover, will he not?”

“Oh, most assuredly, my lady; so long as he gets proper rest and treatment: the poultices are helping as are the various teas that I offer him. He needs remain confined…more that he likes,” he remarks archly.

“Yes,” Sansa replies, “I fear that is true. My lord takes his responsibilities very seriously, maester: it will not be easy to have him relinquish them without a struggle.” Remembering Lord Jon’s words, she questions him tentatively again. “And so his heart and his lungs are not irreparably damaged by the strain?”

“Who can say for certain, my lady? He is a tremendously strong man, but he is of an advancing age. He is a grandfather twice over by his elder daughter now; and he has fought wars and battles with wildlings his entire life. Every man, every person has their limits, my lady; but he will recover from his current affliction in due time and may still live a long life. He is happy enough and so that is…encouraging. Idleness and misery and loneliness will shorten a man’s years, my lady,” he looks at her significantly. “It is better that a man has something to live for.”

“I thank you for your reassurances, maester, and your honest counsel. I will return your tome as soon as I have made a throughout study of its contents,” she says now. “Good day, maester.”

She heads down the hallway quickly, thinking that if it were not for Berena’s emotions and her experience not-grounded-in-science ,rather than the maester’s watchful waiting, that she would be dead from infection and fever and not just possibly barren.

 _Something to live for…let Lord Jon marry and have heirs then: that will give my lord something to live for. S_ he smarts against the injustice of the expectations required of her. _I would give him many more children now, if only I could._

As she hurries along brooding, she nearly runs headlong into Prince Oberyn. “Oh! Forgive me, Prince Oberyn. I-“

“Forgive me for startling you, Lady Umber. I see you are eager to begin your study.”

Sansa looks down at the book in her hands and forces a smile. “Yes, I-“

“Your maester disapproves, is that what troubles you, my lady? You have met my daughters; and so you know that I do not believe in the restrictions placed upon women and learning...of any kind.”

“That is most open-minded of you, Prince Oberyn.”

“I am hoping that you are similarly open-minded, Lady Umber,” he says leadingly.

“I- I- Forgive me, I do not understand-“ she stammers.

“You are concerned for your lord husband’s health, I can see,” he continues. “I had offered some remedies that I had brought from Dorne for my own use that I believe will improve Lord Umber’s recovery, but the maester has shown no interest. I though mayhaps…you might be more willing to consider them? It is a remedy that would be best administered by a woman’s gentle touch,” his eyes glint with an almost seductive gleam and Sansa feels herself blush at his words and manner.

“Oil of the eucalyptus tree,” he explains in a soft purring voice as he proffers a stoppered vial of coloured glass towards Sansa. “It is a strong aromatic oil which benefits the breathing passages: so strong that it needs be diluted, perhaps in bath water, or with another mild oil such as almond oil, and rubbed into the skin of the chest and back to soothe muscles and ease the passage of air into the lungs. It is a favourite oil of mine own paramour, Ellaria Sand.”

Sansa hugs her book to her with one arm and takes the stoppered vial with the other hand.

“Here, permit me,” he pulls the little cork at the top. “Smell, but not too close, my lady, it is strong,” he cautions her.

Sansa holds it near her nose and takes a deep breath. Immediately she feels as though she has breathed fresh air into the depth of her lungs and her body almost seems to tingle. It reminds Sansa of the first time she tasted tea made from peppermint leaves; and she looks at the prince with bright eyes of surprise.

“Your husband would benefit greatly from the warm, dry air in Dorne; but I fear that he will not consent to leave his lands and castle for such a long voyage. This is the best I can offer him here.”

“You are correct, Prince Oberyn: my lord has rarely left the North but for reasons of war, and he takes his role and responsibilities as the Lord of Last Hearth most seriously, as is proper.” She looks at the vial curiously. “How is it that you have need of this remedy in Dorne? Surely you must suffer few if any chest cold in the warm, dry air.”

The prince smiles good-naturedly now though his dark eyes still have that seductive gleam that unnerves her. “The desert is very cold at night but…in truth, my lady, we use it mostly for pleasure. Rub-downs with aromatic oils are a treasured prelude to love in Dorne, enhancing the senses and heightening the act of coupling. I can see that you love your lord husband, my lady,” he tells her when he sees her blush furiously, “there is no shame in enjoying each other. We are quite open about such matters in Dorne but…I am not in Dorne now,” he relents. “I hope I have not given offence, my lady. Lord Umber had been most kind and hospitable; and it has been an honour to be of service to him and to his lovely young lady wife. I had only wished to be of further assistance. ”

Sansa raises her eyes to his searchingly, and sees that he is sincere; and so she and the looks to the vial again. Finally she smiles politely, though inside her heart is fluttering. “I…you have not offended, Prince Oberyn. I am very grateful for your concern for my husband’s health, and for your assistance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi; I may not be updating as frequently as I have in the near future. As I have mentioned, this story has grown and though I am enjoying writing, I have a commitment to knit donations for our annual Christmas charity auction. Please know how very much I appreciate all who have followed and reviewed: your enthusiasm has been wonderful and I promise I will not quit until the story is done. I will be typing in between knitting and purling but the auction has a very definite deadline that I feel obligated to honour. Thank you so much : )


	46. Chapter 46

Sansa could hear her daughter bawling as she came down the hallway. She hurried towards the nursery now.

“Serena, my little bird, why are you crying?” she asks as she enters and sees her little girl pushing her nurse away as she tries to comfort her.

“I wanna go _home_!” Serena wails to her mother.

Sansa stares at her in confusion. “But…but Serena we _are_ home-“

“No! _Winner-fell_!” Her daughter is red in the face and struggling to knock over all her toys in a fury. “I don’ _like_ here!”

Berena shakes her head at Sansa. “Forgive her, milady, but she’s no one to play with anymore. Young Eddard just finished telling her that he can’t be playing with girls. He says he’s a man now, milady.”

“Oh,” Sansa understands. “I see.” She walks over to them and kneels by her daughter. “I will play with you, Serena. Here let me help you pick these dolls up and straighten your tea table,” she tells her gently.

“NO!” Serena yells. “ _Not_ you. Wan’ sister like pwincess!”

Sansa looks on her sadly now, and wishes that she could offer comfort to her daughter. It breaks her heart to think that she may never give her little girl a sister; but it is not her pain that matters right now.

“Come here, Serena,” she tells her. “Come let me hold you, little bird.” Her daughter struggles a moment but then subsides into her mother’s warm embrace and lets herself be rocked and soothed.

“Here, that’s better now,” Sansa croons as she strokes her girl’s soft brown hair. “I’m sorry that you don’t have anyone to play with, Serena; but even if I gave you a baby sister now, she would not be able to play with you for some years,” she tells the sniffling child. “And even then, a sister may not like to play the same games as you: my sister, your Aunt Arya and I did not like the same games,” she recounts now. “She had much rather play with our brothers-“

“Edda’d don’t play,” she blubbers sullenly.

“Oh, I am sure he will want to play again, Serena. When you are a big girl, you can ride together and mayhaps your father will teach you both to use a bow.”

“Da play wit’ me?” The girl seems to brighten at the thought.

Sansa smiles at her now. “Well, your father must see to the castle and the lands and the commons, and he must train with the garrison…but I am sure he will make time for his good girl. Have you been good?”

“Yes,” she pouts. “Want Da.”

“Very well then; let us see if we can find him together.”

Sansa knows that they will find him in the solar with their guests but cannot be certain that he would welcome the interruption of his demanding little daughter. However once she reaches the solar with Serena in her arms, her husband looks up and smiles happily to see both of them.

“There’s my good girl,” he holds his arms out for her, and Sansa sets her down so that she can run to him.

“Da,” she calls, and he bends down to pick her up. Sansa hesitates to see him exert himself and yet he lifts her easily and holds her to him.

“What’s this,” he says examining her face. “Has my good girl been crying?”

She sniffles again. “Edda’d mean. Won’ play wit’ me,” she complains. “Wan’ sister.”

The Greatjon looks to Sansa and she cannot help dropping her eyes penitently, and so he looks back to his daughter. “You have two sisters, though they live elsewhere. Shall we ask them to come and visit you?”

“Noooo. Lit’l sister,” she explains.

“Serena misses playing with- with Robb’s daughters, my lord,” Sansa tells him now.

“I see,” he ponders. “Well, we must see what we can do so that you have some playmates… But right now, you must meet our guests.” He sets her down to stand. “Prince Oberyn, this is my daughter Serena.”

“Lady Serena,” the prince bows formally, “it is my honour.”

Serena smiles and grips the skirt of her dress in her chubby hands as she curtseys childishly. She turns and does the same for the big wildling next to him.

“Har! The little lady will be making a lord o’ me yet with her fine manners,” and he bows awkwardly.

“This is Tormund Giantsbane…a wildling from beyond the Wall.”

Serena’s eyes go wide and she backs up into her father. “He _steal_ me?” she asks in an awed whisper.

“Har! Your lordly father’d have me head to decorate his castle wall...and your brother too, little lady.”

“I have daughters of my own, Lady Serena. Will you tell me what games you like to play?” Prince Oberyn asks kindly.

Serena twists her body side-to-side and swings her arms. “Not game…tea,” she tells him.

“Ah, you like to serve tea like a proper lady,” he nods understandingly. “And would you show me your tea set some time, my lady?”

“Yes,” she answers simply and runs to the door. There she turns and looks back to him. “In nurs’ry.”

“Forgive me,” the prince excuses himself and follows Serena out the door. Once they are gone, the Greatjon questions Sansa.

“Are there no girls in the castle?”

She shakes her head regretfully. “There are a few older girls and one girl babe. I-“ she stops short and purses her lips.

“We’ll think of something, Sansa. I’ll speak with Eddard; though he is at the age of playing with boys his own age, and most are beginning to train now, or to apprentice.”

“I will try to spend more time with her, my lord; I can teach her songs and some dancing,” she suggests. “In time she will be old enough to learn needlework and to have lessons with the master.”

They all turn now as Serena returns with her dolls in her arms and followed by Prince Oberyn who carries her tea set on a tin tray.

“We play tea,” she smiles happily, and hands her older brother Smalljon a doll and then offers one to Tormund Giantsbane who holds her up curiously.

“Does it have a name?” he asks. “I’ve not been introduced proper.”

“Awya,” Serena tells him now, and runs to her mother with her little teapot. “Need tea, Mama.”

“Have you named your doll for your Aunt Arya?” her father asks now.

“Yes,” replies and hands him a doll.

“And what is this one called?”

“Nymewia.”

“And mine, little sister?” Smalljon asks as he examines it closely.

“Cat’wyn.”

“Oh,” he says, embarrassed, and pulls the doll’s skirt back down. Tormund Giantsbane stifles a guffaw.

Sansa looks at him reproachfully. ”Lady Catelyn is my mother’s name. Arya is my younger sister,” Sansa explains to their guests,” and Nymeria is the name of her direwolf.”

“Your brothers also have direwolves, if I am not mistaken, Lady Umber?”

“Yes, Prince Oberyn. I- I do not know what happened to Grey Wind…my brother Robb’s wolf,” she realizes now.

“It was at the Wall, with the Lord Commander’s wolf and that of your youngest brother. Lord Rickon wishes to return with him and his own wolf to Winterfell. He believes the wolf is very protective of your brother’s children.”

Sansa nods sadly. “Of course. Robb would have trained him so…”

Berena appears at the entrance of the solar. “I brewed some tea, milady; not too hot. Shall I leave it on the table?”

“Thank you, Berena.”

Sansa pours the tepid tea into the little teapot so that her daughter can serve her guests. “Slowly. Gracefully,” she whispers to her, and then watches with proud amusement as the big, renowned warriors in her midst accept the tiny tea cups on behalf of their dolls. Their hands are so large that they needs hold them with a finger and thumb alone. Serena is chattering happily about her dolls and pouring them all second cups when the wildling man clears his throat noisily.

“Is the tea not going down as well as our ale, my friend?” the Greatjon jests.

The big man pauses and then looks at him sheepishly. “Are we friends, then? Might be we can do each other some mutual service,” he suggests tentatively. Sansa is surprised to see him behave with such uncharacteristic restraint and humility. “There are many children at the Wall: wildling children. This war’s made many orphans, and before then too; and the Lord Commander’s not got rations to feed them all.”

“We send them what we can,” the Greatjon replies.

“Aye, and the Watch’d be grateful; but we risk cleaning them out before Winter’d be done and there’s some that don’t want us there as it is, and smaller portions at table won’t help that. Many may starve and it’d be the young and the old that go first…so if it’s little girls for playmates you’d be wanting-“

“Smalljon, how many men did we lose beyond the Wall?” his father asks now.

“Six and twenty,” he replies, “not counting…” he hesitates to mention his lost brothers.

“We will take six and twenty of your children,” the Greatjon tells the wilding man resolutely. “Boys and girls both: the older ones can apprentice to a trade. That will be useful to you when you settle in the Gift. But the younger ones will needs minding so send some of your old women with them if you can. And let it be understood that I am lord here,” he states firmly, “and they must follow our laws and customs when they are with us. If they wish to have leave to return to the Gift in the Spring when you settle there, they shall have it. Anyone who would stay with us can stay. Smalljon, see that soldiers and sledges accompany Tormund back to the Wall for the children. Sansa?”

“Yes, my lord?” Sansa replies softly. She is thinking how much she loves him for what he is doing now.

“Mayhaps our warden Lord Stark would help to find places for other children if you wrote to him,” he suggests and she nods.

“I will take up your cause with Prince Doran when I return to Sunspear, to see what provisions we might send your people,” Prince Oberyn adds to Tormund.

The wildling man nods thoughtfully. “It’s a lot you’re doing to help us; and you won’t be finding us ungrateful either.”

As the men continue talking and drinking thimble-sized cups of tepid tea, Sansa takes a moment to thank the Dornishman. “I am grateful for your attention to my daughter Prince Oberyn: you have made her very happy.”

“She is a spirited little girl; and your son is a strong boy. You and your lord are proud of them, but you wish for more children, yes?”

She blushes slightly. “I have always wanted many children, Prince Oberyn. Surely you did as well; and you are very good with both my children,” she notes.

He shrugs slightly. “I have eight daughters, Lady Umber: I have taken tea with dolls, and I have taught them to fight as well.”

“Yes,” she acknowledges, “I remember them well. My own sister has also learned to fight, and still trains, though I imagine that will soon become difficult in her present condition,” she notes delicately.

He nods and tilts his head, eyeing her sharply. “They say she is very much like you father’s sister, your aunt Lyanna?”

“Yes,” she smiles and then remembers that his sister Elia was Rhaegar Targaryen’s wife, and mother to his children: all murdered by the Mountain during Robert’s Rebellion. Sansa knows that in Dorne, Lyanna is believed to have stolen the prince away from his wife, rather than having been stolen from her family and her betrothed, Robert Baratheon. Now that she is aware of Jon’s true parentage, she wonders what the truth is herself. “I- I fear her name brings unhappy memories for both our families,” she adds.

“It does,” he acknowledges, and then looks her over, “though I understand now why a man would become so…distracted by a young and beautiful Stark woman.” His eyes gleam darkly, and Sansa feels the same discomfort under his gaze that she feels with Lord Jon.

“M-my sister will have a happier life, I am certain. She-she loves her lord husband…as do I.”

“Hm,” he scarcely acknowledges. “She trains with a sword?”

“Yes, but in the Braavosi style-“

“Ah,” his eyes brighten somewhat, “she is a water-dancer then?”

“Y-yes, I believe that is what she called it. She quotes a Valyrian phrase: valar morghulis.”

“All men must die,” he translates thoughtfully, and then glances towards the Greatjon and back to her. “Kessa.”

Sansa stands immobile with her smile frozen on her face and is unable to answer.

“Please forgive me, Lady Umber, I have need to find your maester and send a raven to Dorne to prepare for my return journey. I will be accompanying our friend Tormund back to the Wall before leaving for Eastwatch where a ship will come for me.” He bows casually and leaves the solar.

She watches him leave and looks back to her husband who is accepting yet more tea from their daughter. His hair is all grey now, and he becomes red in the face from exertion and tires easily because of his chest cold. Sometimes his breathing is labored and his coughing racks his body. But the maester has assured her that he will recover completely.

She looks again to the empty doorway.

Sansa’s own maester, Maester Luwin taught her and all of her siblings some High Valyrian; and though she had never heard the phrase _valar morghulis_ as a girl, she does know that _kessa_ means _yes_.

She looks again to her husband and whispers to herself: “Daor.”

_No._


	47. Chapter 47

Sansa reaches for the stoppered glass vial of eucalyptus oil that Prince Oberyn has given her and holds it up to the light of the candle on her dressing table. She squints as she peers into the substance and tries to think of how she will ask her husband to let her make use of it. Berena has already found her a bigger vial of almond oil with which to mix it and brought her an earthenware bowl that she can warm the oils by the fire. Finally she signs resignedly and pours a quantity of both into the bowl and swirls the oils together; then she rises and walks over to set it by the hearth.

As she is removing the shell combs that hold her hair in place, the Greatjon enters their chamber and shuts the door behind him. She turns to him and sees that he looks tired.

“Have our guests retired, my lord?”

“No,” he replies wearily, “but Smalljon is with them still…” he trails off and then smiles to see her sitting at her dressing table. “I would much rather be with you anyway, Sansa.” He coughs suddenly.

“I am pleased to hear you say so; I-I have something for you…” she says as she glances to the hearth.

When he sees what she has done, he is perplexed. “What is all this?”

Their chamber has several bearskin rugs. Sansa has never cared for them: they remind her of the dirty snowbear cloak, complete with the animal’s head for a hood, that Mors Umber wears. But now she has dragged them to the hearth and piled them one atop another and added the furs from their bed.

“Prince Oberyn, my lord, has gifted us a Dornish remedy for your chest cold: I thought-“

“Oh gods,” he groans, “not that perfumed oil that will have me stinking like a Planky Town whorehouse…begging your pardons, Sansa.”

She drops her eyes before looking to him again. “I will needs take your word as to how such a place may smell, my lord,” she tells him archly, “but I find the smell quite pleasing and invigorating. The prince swears that it will ease both your cough and labored breathing, and soothe your muscles and warm your skin,” she continues hopefully.

“ _The Red Viper._ Sansa, Prince Oberyn is known for using poisons; gods be good, all the Dornish are,” he grumbles. “Do you not think I see how he looks at you? The only person his remedy is like to cure is _you_ …of being Lady Umber. He’d like to see you widowed, I have no doubt of that.”

Sansa’s tummy twists inside her to remember the prince’s words and the way he looked her over when last they spoke; but she cannot believe that he intends to poison his host when he had encouraged her to pleasure him.

“Prince Oberyn told me that he offered the remedy to the maester even before I returned to Last Hearth,” she observes reasonably, as much to convince herself. “And if it should be poison, well, then he must certainly intend that we should perish together, my lord, for it was the prince who suggested that I should rub it into the skin of your back and chest. He- he said you might find that more…more pleasing,” she tells him delicately and she sees that he is still hesitant. “Here,” she stands and offers him her hand, “I thought that since you must be stripped to the waist, my lord, you would be more comfortable lying before the hearth fire: I have piled the rugs and furs for you to lie upon; and I have set the oil to warm-“

He takes her hand in both of his great big hands and speaks gently. “You are very sweet to want to care for me, my Sansa; but you needn’t tend me like a nurse with a sick child.”

She tilts her head as she looks up to him. She sees that he does wish to appear weak or sick and needing her help: he does want to think that she may pity him. She steps closer to him.

“Please, my lord,” she says softly, “I to not tend you merely out of duty; I truly wish to comfort you because…because I love you…and wish you to be well again”

He stares at her with an uncertain surprise and blinks before speaking again: “You…you-“

She steps even closer to him now. “I love you very much, my lord,” she repeats as she looks up into his eyes.

He still looks down at her; then he looks to the furs before the hearth and back to her.

“Well,” he begins and clears his throat slightly to clear the hoarseness that threatened to take his voice away, “well: that…that is settled then, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, it is, my lord. Will you lie before the fire to keep warm?” she asks.

He nods once curtly and then again before reaching to untie the furs he is wearing. Once he has shed the outer fur, Sansa reaches to untie the neck of his woolen shirt and to help lift it over his head. Then she takes his hand again and leads him to the furs spread out on the floor of their chamber. He kneels on the furs and then bends to sprawl awkwardly on them face-down. Sansa reaches to brush his shaggy grey hair away from his neck and shoulders and then pours oil into her palm and lets it trickle onto his broad back.

“Is it warm enough?” she whispers soothingly.

“Hm,” he grunts breathily, “I guess so.”

“Good.” Sansa spreads the oil evenly over his skin in slow circles until he is covered; then she begins to rub firmer circles, pressing with her fingertips as she does.

After several moments, her husband begins to make little rumbling sounds of pleasure that grow deeper as she continues to rub him firmly. She feels his muscles relax their tension under her gentle hands. Instinctively, she presses the heels of her hands alongside his spine and then moves outwardly, and he grunts and then exhales in a deep sigh. The aroma of the oil is filling the room as well as her senses and she can feel herself breathing deeper; she hopes that it is helping with his congestion, but she is happy just to touch him and to know his body is responding to her ministrations. She hums airily under her breath and watches as the firelight flickers across his skin and smiles languidly to herself. When she has worked her way across his back and down from his shoulders to where his breeches reach his waist, she sits back on her heels and wrings and rubs her hands together to lessen the strain of pressing hard onto his strong body. The hearth fire continues to crackle and hiss and sputter but otherwise their chamber is dark and silent. Finally, she leans forward to whisper softly to him.

“My lord, will you turn over now?”

She thinks she hears him sigh and so waits for him to rouse himself, but instead he takes a deep breath and emits a loud snore, startling her. Sansa sits back on her heels again and touches her fingertips to her mouth to stifle a gasp of surprise that threatens to erupt into a giggle. _He certainly had need of the relaxation it has afforded him,_ she surmises now. _My poor dear: he must have been very tired._

Sansa decides to let him sleep rather than waking him to move to their bed. Standing now, she stretches and wipes her hands clean of the eucalyptus oil before reaching behind herself to unlace her gown. She undresses carefully and leaves her clothing across the back of a chair for the young girl who is helping her new maid. The new woman is older, and kind; but she tires quickly and struggles to climb the stairs and Sansa does not think she will be able to keep her in her service once Winter has ended. Despite her gnarled hands, the woman braids her hair swiftly and beautifully, and so Sansa intends that she be set to teach girls to weave fabric in the Spring, so that she may sit at her task. She hopes then to send for a new maid from White Harbor or Torrens’ Square. She quickly dons her bedgown but leaves her robe at the foot of their bed before returning to the fire. She stands looking down at her sleeping husband before kneeling beside him and then curling up next to him on the furs.

She gazes at him in the firelight and then reaches out to trace her fingertips across his shoulder and down his back again before moving closer to him. She can smell the eucalyptus oil and feel the warmth of his body next to hers as she lays her head down onto the soft furs.

_He will be well again. We will have more time together._

Soon, she is asleep.

…….

She wakes with a start when she feels the body beside her move suddenly. Sansa lifts her head slightly and sees her husband look around confusedly.

“How-“ he begins but then he settles again. “I fell asleep.”

“Yes,” Sansa whispers as he turns onto his side to face her. “I did not wish to wake you, and we are warm here and so I came to sleep beside you.”

“Hm,” he remarks sleepily, “shall we stay here? Are you warm enough?”

“Yes, I think so. Would you like for me to rub more oil onto your back, or onto your chest now? It seemed to ease your breathing and help you sleep soundly.”

“Would you not rather sleep, Sansa? You must be tired with guests in the castle,” he yawns now.

“I- you seemed to enjoy the…the oil and its benefits. It would please me to offer more comfort to you.”

He smiles warmly at her. “Well, I would like to please you by letting you please me, my sweet Sansa,” he tells her as he rolls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling. “I don’t believe any man has ever had to do so little to please a lady as I am doing now,” he jests mildly, and Sansa giggles.

She sits up now and reaches across him for the little bowl of oils and, as she does, he runs big warm hands up her arms caressingly. She pours oil into her palm and rubs her hands together before placing them on his abdomen and rubbing slowly up his chest into the thick hair that covers him. The strong, sharp smell fills the air again and she begins to rub the same firm circles with pressing fingertips up his body towards his neck before running her hands down his arms. All the while he smiles up at her and sighs and grunts when she lingers over a spot of hard muscle to loosen the tension. Within a short time, there is a far sweeter tension growing between them, and Sansa feels her face flush under his warm gaze. He reaches a great hand to cup her face on one side.

“You are more beautiful than dreams: do you know that, my Sansa? I should know, for I dreamed of you so often at the Wall…and beyond,” he murmurs to her.

Sansa smiles gently and continues stroking his skin with her fingers. “I missed you very much when we were apart,” she whispers to him,

“All I could think of was being with you in our bed, of holding your sweet, warm body close to keep warm and of seeing those big blue eyes and that fiery hair of yours…it warmed my blood and kept me from freezing at night,” he coughs briefly now.

“I- I thought of you as well…” she tells him hesitantly, “of…of lying together so…so I would not feel so very lonely without you,” she whispers almost hoarsely, uncertain that saying such thing are appropriate for a lady. “I- I wanted so much to be in your arms…where I am safe and happy,” she reaches now to stroke her hand down his grey beard and then through is thick hair. “I am so very happy that we are here together, my lord, and that we will have more time together-“ she draws a breath suddenly to keep herself from becoming overwhelmed and teary-eyed.

He reaches out with his arms now as he sits up. “Come kiss me then, Sansa: I’ll keep you safe and happy now,” he says in a voice tight with emotion.

She leans towards him and puts her hands on his strong shoulders, and they come together with a full, soft kiss that takes both of their breaths away. They continue kissing, full kisses and little teasing kisses at the corners of each other’s mouth and bottom lip as they look into each other’s eyes. Sansa runs her hands slowly down his hairy chest, inhaling the sharp scent of the eucalyptus and the deep, warm smell of the skin on his neck under his beard. His great big hands slip around her waist and pull her close to him, and she feels her swelling breasts press into his chest and she stretches her arms up around his neck. Her heart begins to beat faster and she gives a squeaky whimper.

The Greatjon chuckles: “What’s this then?” he murmurs close to her. “Has my lady wolf turned into a mouse?”

Sansa blushes and shakes her head. “No, I-“ She wants to tell him how happy she is that they will lie together again but his grip on her waist tightens and he presses his lips over her ear.

“I’ll get better than a squeak from you,” he growls.

_I’ll have that song,_ she remembers now; and her shyness dissipates like the little streams of steam blown off a cup of tea. She looks him boldly in his eyes now. “Mayhaps you’ll even have a song from me,” she whispers huskily, “but I am no mouse to squeak before a great giant.”

She kisses him again, hungrily and passionately, and draws a long limber leg over his middle to straddle him. She can feel the hardness of him through his breeches, and so reaches to unlace the placket. Once she pulls back the woolen fabric and uncovers his engorged manhood, she takes it between her hands and rubs it slowly.

“Mmph,” he stifles a grunt by biting down on his lip but his body quivers at her touch. “Are you cold?” he asks.

Sansa shakes her head no and so he grips the thin fabric of her bedgown in his fists and begins to drag it up her body until she needs raise her arms so that he can pull it over her head and leave her naked to his gaze in the firelight.

“Beautiful…” he murmurs and coughs once. “My beautiful Sansa,” he repeats and trails his fingertips down her neck and throat and between her breasts and under the fullness of their curve before gently palming them with calloused hands.

Sansa closes her eyes and lets her head fall back, surrendering herself to his caresses as she gropes to find his member again. She rubs the length of it with her closed hand while she swirls her fingertips over the rounded head of it with her free hand. When he mirrors her swirling motion over her nipples with his thumbs, she gasps and looks at him dreamily with dark blue, heavy lidded eyes.

“Lie back now,” she whispers, “and let me love you.”

The Greatjon curls back down slowly into the furs and his hands run gently down her arms as she braces herself by placing her palms flat against his chest. She gives a hum of contentment as she feels herself open to his solid, straining manhood but then her breath catches and she winces suddenly.

“It hurts you?” he asks, alarmed for her.

“No,” she grits out, but it does hurt. She has not lain with him in many moons and she needs take a deep breath to ease him inside her slowly and gently. She sighs now to feel herself stretched tightly around him, and to sense the throbbing in his body as well as her own and to hear the pounding of her own heart and of swiftly coursing blood thud dully in her ears. “Oh,” she exhales breathlessly now.

“Easy now,” he soothes her though his own voice is tense and his jaw is clenched tightly. “We have time, Sansa…take your time…”

She smiles tenderly down on him as she begins to rock her hips slowly. “Yes,” she tells him happily, “we have time…and each other…” Despite their words, she feels her excitement build quickly and her entire body is flushed and tingling. She cannot stop from tightening her insides around him as she moves, making him pant and shiver and stretch out his neck as he arches his back and head. He cannot stop from gripping her hips and pulling her down harder onto him; and the rocking of her hips soon becomes a steady bucking that makes them both gasp and keen and cry out as they peak together in a drawn-out shudder of joined bodies and tense, clutching limbs.

“Say it again,” he commands gruffly, almost desperately: “Say it-“

“Oh, I _love_ you,” she cries as her pleasure courses through her and makes her feel warm and glowing and alive; so alive and happy that she nearly laughs, and then they are both laughing softly as she subsides and reaches forward to lay her head down on his chest to hear his beating heart and feel his arms come around her to hold her to him. She is as wilted as a tall wildflower after a heavy rain, and as sated and blooming. She inhales the scent of eucalyptus from his skin and hair and smiles against him.

“I love you so very much…and we have _time_ ,” she breathes.


	48. Chapter 48

They lie awake luxuriating in the warmth of the hearth fire, the softness of the furs from their bed beneath them and the closeness of their still entwined bodies. Sansa sighs deeply and stretches her arm across her husband’s chest and lets her slender hand rest over his heart on the matt of his thick grey hair. He runs his hand up her arm now to her shoulder and rests it there before speaking quietly:

“Are you quite certain that you are not hurting, Sansa?” he murmurs. “It had been some time since-“

“I am well: truly I am. It was only for a moment…then it passed,” she whispers, “and then everything was _wonderful_.” She presses closer into his side and rubs her lithe leg against his own big, hairy calf.

“I never wanted to hurt you again after…after the first time, Sansa. You were so badly hurt and bleeding…”

Sansa feels herself tense to remember that night and how frightened she was of him despite his attempts to be kind and gentle. She closes her eyes. _It is better now,_ she reminds herself _. You love him and he loves you._

“…swore that I would never give you cause to cry again; that I’d do anything to make you happy,” he tells her solemnly now.

She thinks to how he left her to her own chamber and her own bed for well over a year, to all his gifts, his many kindnesses and his love for their children, and how he demanded that she be respected as his lady: the Lady of Last Hearth.

“You have,” she insists gently. “You have made me very happy. I cannot but think of what my father said-“

He shifts now and looks down to where she is curled up next to him. “And what was that?”

“He said that he would make a match for me…with someone brave and gentle and strong.” She needs pause as she feels her mouth quiver and her eyes fill. She takes a deep breath and continues. “You have been everything that my father wanted for me, and everything that I could have wanted for myself. “ She presses her forehead into his chest and her tears come as she tries to blink them away. “Forgive me, I-“

“It’s alright,” he comforts her gently, “but you see? I have made you cry again,” he teases her now.

“It is just that sometimes wish so much to see him again, my lord. I would love for him to know that we are happy; and to know young Eddard and Serena…and Robb’s daughters and now Arya’s first child. It is just so unfair,” she whispers sadly. “My father should have had a long life and enjoyed his family just as…”

“As I have?”

Sansa pauses. “Well, yes, my lord. I know well that your life had not been without its sorrows but…but have you not been happy to see your daughter wed and your grandchildren born into the world? Please do not think that I resent your happiness because of my father’s loss. The one had naught to do with the other; it is for the gods to decide which man will have a long life.”

“Sansa,” he intones and puts a finger under her chin so that she will raise her head to look at him, “the one did have to do with the other. Had your father lived…well, we should never have been married, I am certain of that; and being wed to you has been what has made me happiest these last years. I mourn your father truly, Sansa, he was my liege lord and my great friend and the most honourable of men; but I would not change a thing of all that has happened if it meant you would have never been mine. Is that very selfish of me, Sansa? I fear that it must sound terrible to you.”

“We can never change what has happened,” she replies dully, but she wonders if she would change her life now to have her father back, to have never suffered all of the pain and humiliation of her torment in King’s Landing, and to have mayhaps been married to a young lord and never dishonoured herself with another man. _Would I have been happier? I will never know._   But she knows that she has made him happy because he has told her many times; and for that she is grateful. She only wishes that she had always been grateful. “I think mayhaps the gods send us trials and suffering to teach us what true happiness is, so that we may appreciate it while we have it…for however long or short a time that may be,” she ventures thoughtfully.

The Greatjon strokes her cheek softly now. “You are as wise as you are beautiful, my Sansa; wise beyond your years, I should think, but then you have endured too much suffering for a young girl and a young woman. You have seen too much, and yet it has not ungentled you but made you kinder still,” he tells her with sincere admiration and pride.

“You are kind as well, my lord; and have you not seen much and suffered a great deal?” she tells him but then sees his eyes harden and look off into the distance. “Forgive me, my lord. Mayhaps it is best not spoken of…not yet-“

“No,” he tells her darkly, “not yet.” He pulls her closer to him now, wrapping her in a tight embrace and bending his head to kiss the top of hers. “Not yet,” he repeats. “Let us instead be happy now, Sansa: we are together now and we have each other…and we have time, as you have said.”

Sansa bites her lip in apprehension: she fears that she has upset him to have made him recall his dead sons and his ordeal beyond the Wall. But she holds him closer as well now, and reassures him. “Yes, my lord.”

…….

The Greatjon coughs forcefully now and glances towards the hearth. “Have we any of that blasted oil left after…” he alludes to the previous night on their furs and Sansa blushes even as she smiles. She brings him the little earthenware bowl now and holds out it out to him. The Winter sun streaming into their chambers makes the surface of the oil shimmer brightly.

“Ah, good,” he dips his big fingers into the bowl and rubs it between his hands and onto his throat and then runs his fingers through his beard and sniffs deeply. “Remind me to thank Prince Oberyn for his remedy…and his advice to you. Least had it been poison, I should have died a happy man,” he laughs his great laughs now and coughs again.

Sansa fusses with a length of thick linen to wrap around his neck before he dons his woolen shirt.

“Are you quite certain that you should train in the yard, my lord? Your health has been improving and so I should hate to see you suffer a reversal.”

“Fearful that I should be bedridden and keep you there with me?” he jests, his warm eyes twinkling at her.

She smiles up at him slyly: ‘If I thought that you would agree to remain bedridden with me, my lord, I should push us both out into the snow wearing only our smallclothes,” she jests in return and he laughs hugely and coughs again. Then she stills him with a hand over his heart. “The maester swears that you will recover completely if only you would limits your activities until-“

“Oh, blast the maester! A man needs train if he is to retain his best fighting form; and I have been fighting in the cold since I was a boy. The garrison needs to see me out there, Sansa: I am Lord of Last Hearth and it is my duty.” He puts a hand under her chin, the hand with the missing fingers that always remind her of Grey Wind, and his tone is gentler and conciliatory now. “I promise to restrict myself, Sansa…for your sake and the children; only they don’t needs know that,” he tells her jerking his head towards their chamber door before leaning in closer to her and murmuring low: “I’m in no hurry to leave you, Sansa: we have many years left together, you and I.”

She nods and smiles for him now. She knows how difficult it is for him to restrict himself in any way: he is such a great big and strong man and reluctant to admit weakness even to himself, much less to her; but he has done so to reassure her and she knows that is a great gift of his trust in her. “Thank you, my lord,” she whispers, and reaches to tie the fastenings of his shirt. She starts to step back so that he can don his heavy furs but he stops her and puts his hands on her shoulders to still her.

“Sansa, I need to say this again to you because I saw your face, your beautiful face, this last midday when Serena asked for a sister. Don’t,” he says gently when she drops her eyes, “don’t look away, Sansa; listen to me now: I am happy whatever the future should hold for us, and I would not have you brood over this anymore.”

She cannot help herself now: “I wish-“

“I know,” he interrupts firmly. “I also know that we are not given all that we wish for…as do you, Sansa. Do not let it make you unhappy. I would not see you unhappy.”

“But Serena, my lord: she is unhappy,” she tells him.

“She is a little girl, Sansa: she wants a sister now but if she gets one she will complain the girl takes her dolls and wears her hair ribbons. I’ve had daughters, and you had a sister: you know how it is, Sansa. We will have little girls for her to play with someday soon, be they our own or the wildlings...mayhaps both,” he chuckles to reassure her.

She bites her lip and gazes up at him still.

“What is it, Sansa? Tell me.”

“Do you not wish for another daughter, my lord?” she cannot resist asking him.

The Greatjon sighs resignedly through his nose. “Sansa, you are asking if I would be happy for you to bear me more children, and the answer is of course I would…but not at the cost of making you unhappy. We already have two very beautiful children: Eddard and Serena are more than enough for me.”

“What would we name her?” she prompts him yearningly. “Please tell me…”

He leans to kiss her cheek and she thinks that he will not reply to her, but then he puts his mouth over her ear and whispers: “Arrana.”

…….

On her way through the hallway of the castle, Sansa passes the wildling Tormund who smiles and bows his head to her respectfully.

“Your lord’d be training outside this fine morning, and I’m grateful we are on the same side now, har! I don’t often meet my match in battle, but sure he’d be the one to beat, my lady.”

“You are very kind to say so; though I suspect you are being modest Lord Tormund. Surely the Free Folk would never follow a man who was not fierce in battle,” she tells him now.

“Har! She called me lord. You folks’d be warming to me, I’ll wager; even that old sourfaced, one-eyed Mors told me to help meself to the ale he left in the solar. I’ll soon be so used to your fancy ways that I’ll want a castle of me own…complete with indoor privy!”

Sansa blushes. “Well, I do hope that you are enjoying your stay at Last Hearth. Please do look around and ask any questions of myself or my lord: you will soon needs manage affairs in the Gift for your own people, and we would be pleased to be of assistance to you.”

“It’s a fine help you are, like you Lord Crow brother; and I don’t lie when I say we won’t be forgetting either.”

She smiles again and moves off and instinctively heads to a hallway with a window overlooking the training yard. She looks until she spots her husband among the soldiers and then opens the latch of the window to lean out and watch. She is pleased to observe that he is instructing men rather than fighting, and swings his greatsword only when demonstrating to them, and then observes them as they spar.

“He’s in decent form.”

“Better than decent, though slower than usual, it seems. Hard to tell when he don’t spar against anyone.”

“Do you think your lord might spar with a visiting Dornishman? Perhaps it is too soon to ask this of him.”

Sansa recognizes the voices of the great-uncles, Mors and Hother, and Prince Oberyn from beneath the window. When she leans forward slightly, she sees that Lord Jon is with them as well. He holds his own sword and wipes sweat from his brow before taking a horn of drink offered by Crowfoot Umber.

“Best wait; I’ll wager he’s only strong enough to spar with his red wolf and so let him have her: it keeps him happy…and busy,” Hother parries in his usual crude manner.

“A remarkable young lady,” comments the Dornish prince, “and they seem to care for one another equally.”

“That weren’t always the case for her: thought herself too good for us,” Mors sniffs,” and for him.”

“That does not seem to me her true nature; I remember that there was talk that the poor girl was badly treated in Kings Landing. My own daughters found her very sweet and polite but terribly withdrawn and guarded in her feelings. They feared there was truth to the rumours,” Prince Oberyn ventures, “and it would explain her reticence?”

“Some truth…but not all. There’d been talk she was ravished by the bastard Joffrey, or his guards and soldiers… turned out it were horseshit though: she were a maid alright. The lord found that out the first night. Linens’d be all bloodied.”

“And how do you know such things?” Crowfoot asks testily.

“I talk to the laundresses; I don’t just fuck’em,” he chides his brother.

“This talk of your lord and his lady is inappropriate,” she hears the Smalljon snap sullenly to his great-uncles.

“There were talk of your father’s rutting since he became a man, Smalljon: the castle’s always been full of it, and after he wed the first time too. Before this one’d even come, they laid bets as to whether he’d needs be true to her just because she was a Stark and a princess; but when that girl rode through the gates and they saw her face, they were laying bets as to whether she’d be true to _him_.”

Sansa very nearly gasps out loud to think those in the castle may have suspected or thought her capable of infidelity, and she wonders if any know the terrible truth. Her heart begins to beat wildly.

“And? Which side won?” Prince Oberyn asks with impertinent amusement.

“Oh, she’d be good to her vows, that one,” Hother interrupts over Smalljon’s wordless exclamation of outrage. “You can see it in the faces of those half-wolf whelps of theirs: more him than her. ‘Sides, he’d take his greatsword to any man’d look at her up-and-down or sideways, much less would take her that way,” he nearly laughs. “There’d be no man with a cock left standing from the Bay of Seals down to Winterfell. The lord’d kill for his pretty red wolf.”

“Aye, he would too,” Mors agrees gravely; and Sansa sees him walk away purposefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise. I was going cross-eyed from knitting and so took a break and managed another chapter. Next update probably next week though.
> 
> The name 'Arrana', like the name Serena, is the name of a Stark girl who married an Umber lord.


	49. Chapter 49

Young Eddard sighs and very nearly rolls his eyes as he slumps in his chair in the solar.

“No more poetry, Mother…please,” he adds.

Sansa gives him a steady, measuring look and then closes the tome she is holding in her lap. “Very well, Eddard. I believe that is enough for one sitting,” she agrees. “Why don’t you find your father?”

“He’s already here!” the Greatjon exults as he walks into the solar. “What do you need, Eddard?”

 His son squirms and looks sheepishly at his mother. “I don’t think I like poems, Father,” he confesses uneasily.

“Well…I don’t know that I like them either, boy; but ladies like them and the day will come when you want to say pretty words to them, so let your mother teach you some fine manners,” he winks playfully at Sansa.

“Da!” Serena calls abruptly and pouts.

“Yes, Serena, I see you there. Come give your Da a big kiss,” he holds out his arms and she runs giggling to him. “Oof,” he exclaims as she squeezes him tightly, “my girl is getting bigger.”

“Yes, she is,” Sansa smiles, “I think that mayhaps it is time that you both learn some dancing.”

Young Eddard groans.

“That is enough, boy,” his father chides him. “You will respect your mother.”

“But dancing is for _girls_ ,” he complains.

“Well, who do think the girls dance _with_ , boy? Besides, your great-uncle Mors is quite the spirited dancer when they strike up a spinning skirl: sweeps the girls right off their feet, he does.”

“…whether they like it or not,” the Smalljon adds wryly as he walks in behind his father. “Hello, little sister: have you a kiss for me?”

Serena swings her arms and tilts her head at her big brother: “May-be.”

Sansa rises gracefully from her chair. “Speaking of your uncle, my lord, I needs meet with him regarding the stores,” she remembers now. “Oh, I fear that I may have kept him waiting. Forgive me, please.”

Her husband smiles as she passes him, and she flushes to know that he will watch her walk away but she still slows her walk for his enjoyment before hurrying towards the North tower once she reaches the hallway. She is humming as she arrives, and she carefully lifts her skirts with one hand and places her opposite hand into the handholds as she climbs the steps to the storeroom.

“’Bout time,” the big man grumbles, “I thought you weren’t coming.” He appears to be sweating despite the cold air in the tower room.

“Forgive me, I- oh!” Sansa suddenly sees the wilding man Tormund slumped to the floor near a barrel and runs to him.

“What’s happened? Is he hurt?” she asks, but the wildling does not respond to her shakes as Mors only stands by looking down on him with the fierce hatred he holds for all wildlings. “What have you done to him?” she accuses now.

“Just sweetsleep in his ale; he’ll wake,” he tells her dismissively and then steps towards her, “but you won’t.”

“What…what do you mean?” Sansa feels suddenly threatened by his looming presence and his determined expression.

“They won’t listen to me. The wildlings are dangerous…and they’re letting them in everywhere…even here at Last Hearth. It has to stop.” He pauses and takes another step towards her. “I’m the only one who sees it…so I have to be the one to do it.”

“I don’t understand,” she quails and begins to back away from him. “What is it you mean to do?”

He bends now and takes a large dagger from the belt of the drugged wildling, and Sansa catches her breath to see the glint of the wide sharp blade.

“He’d kill for you,” he explains calmly and firmly, and she knows he is referring to her husband. “I expect your lord brothers will too: the Warden and the Lord Commander. If you die and they believe he did it,” he points to Tormund with the point of the dagger,” they’ll kill him. They’ll kill them all…and we’ll be rid of them.”

 _He’s gone mad_ , she realizes, _mad from loss and grief and anger_ ; and yet he seems perfectly normal and rational, almost too much so. But the hardness of his one dark eye is chilling to her. It looks as dark as the chunk of dragonglass in the other socket. She swallows hard as he moves towards her slowly, and creeps toward the door behind her.

“But…but my lord…my children,” she cannot help saying feebly, hoping that it will stir his conscience, or his sanity.

“They’ll be looked after,” he tells her calmly, “and the lord can marry again. This is the only way-“

“No.” She begins to turn away and flee but he is on her, swiftly for such a big man, and has he her by her hair and is pulling her back towards him.

“Keep still, girl, and it will be over quickly,” he commands tightly. “It’ll hurt more if you fight-“

She screams with all the breath in her body, and kicks her feet as he lifts her with his free arm and tries to drag her back further into the room. Her foot hits his shin hard and he drops her, but before she can right herself he pushes her hard against up against a wall and presses his forearm mercilessly against her throat. Sansa gasps and fights for air.

“I’ll cut you after if that’s easier,” he says close to her face. “He needs have your blood on him-“

_He means to cut me, to kill me. Gods help me, help me, please!_

She struggles to pull his arm away from her neck, and kicks at him again put his feet are planted wide apart on either side of her.

He grunts from his efforts. “They say you Starks are hard to kill,” he mutters in frustration and he finally draws back the dagger to plunge into her.

Just then, her knee connects sharply with what is between his legs and he doubles over in agony and drops the blade to the rough wooden floor with a dull _clank_.

“Ow! Aaarrrgh! _You. Wolf. Bitch_.”

He holds his hands together over his breeches and moans as Sansa scrambles on her hands and knees gasping for air and reaches for the dagger and throws it out the door of the storeroom. She tries to crawl after it before Mors can recover and pick it up again. She tries to scream or call for help but she has no voice; she can only gasp desperately for air and hope that her vision does not blur from the tears of pain stinging her eyes.

_My lord, my love: help me!_

There is no one to help her, she realizes as she crawls to the landing of the stairs just outside the door, and the long view down to the floorboards at the bottom suddenly fills her with dread; but she sits back on her heels and makes to rise and run when he is behind her and grabs her by the back of the collar of her dress. A vision of the staring eyes and laughing faces of the court at Kings Landing when she was stripped and beaten flashes before her and a flood of hot anger at her own helpless humiliation fills her with a desperate determination.

 _NO!_ The shout is only in her mind but it is great and strong and deafening to her senses.

She hears her collar rip as she turns her body and she is face with the madman’s knees in his patched breeches, but she grabs a tight hold of his leg with both arms and lifts his foot out from under him and he totters and flails his arms and opens his mouth but no sound comes out. Then he loses his balance and tips headlong into the stairwell, falling against the stone steps with all his weight behind him and there is a solid thud and a sickening crunch followed by another thud and another and finally a dull thump and a dead silence.

At first she can only hear the drumming of blood coursing in her ears and then suddenly the harsh rasp of her own strangled breathing and finally a great sob of despair.

“Gods,” she whimpers, and crawls to the edge of the steps to look down where he is lying a tangled heap, perfectly still. The angle of his head on his neck is horrible to see, and though Sansa knows that he is dead, she is still terrified that he will rouse himself and stand and try again to kill her. She clings so hard to the stone landing that her nails scratch and break and she sniffles shakily. She does not know how long she is there when she hears the Greatjon call her name.

“Sansa? _Sansa!”_

She hears his pounding footsteps and then he appears at the bottom of the steps next to the body of his uncle, and he looks at it and up to her in alarmed confusion.

“Sansa…what’s happened? Are you hurt?”

Though he is speaking to her, he leans over the body of the dead man and furrows his brow in concern. When she does not answer him, he climbs the steps towards her slowly and carefully. She is still wheezing for breath and shaking and crying quietly. When he reaches her, he hears her laborious breaths and leans over closer.

“Sansa, can you speak to me?”

“Ugn, mph,” are all the sounds she can make as she shakes her head quickly, and the painful movement of her neck makes her choke and cough.

Now there are sounds of footsteps coming from above and the Greatjon turns his head and stands.

“Smalljon, fetch the maester. Hurry, there’s been an accident.”

“Lady Umber?” his son asks and runs down until he sees her.

“Yes, and your great-uncle. Hurry now and tell no one.”

“H-ha,” Sansa breathes and motions towards the storeroom.

“What is it, Sansa? Is there someone there? Did they do this?” her husband asks threateningly now.

She shakes her head vigorously again, and Lord Jon steps into the room to look.

“It’s Tormund,” he calls, “and he is passed out cold.”

“Sansa, did he do this?” the Greatjon asks her. “What’s happened to him?”

She takes several deep breaths and whispers weakly: “S-sweets-slee-eep.”

“Sweetsleep? Where did he get sweetsleep?” he asks his son as he emerges from the room.

Sans points down the steps and gasps: “A-ale.”

The Greatjon kneels next to her and puts a soothing hand on her head as his son heads down the steps and kneels to peer at Mors before glancing back up at them. “He put sweetsleep in Tormund’s ale?”

“Get the maester: now,” his father orders, and his son turns and runs.

Sansa is still looking down at the dead body and suddenly it hits her: _I killed him. I killed a man._ She wonders how she is to live with that, and how his family can ever forgiver her. Her husband is putting his hands on her shoulders now.

“Sansa,” he speaks gently, “can you sit up? Let me see if you are hurt, Sansa: let me help you.”

She sits up slowly and looks at him. Her hair is loose and falling in her face and she can feel the snot dripping from her nose and feels herself quiver and hears herself sniffle and gasp.

“S-s-ore-ee.” Her voice is a thin whisper, a feeble whistle of breath; and her husband is looking at her darkly.

“Your neck is all red, and your gown is torn: who did this?”

She nods down the steps feebly.

“Mors? Why?”

Tears fill her eyes again and she raises her hands to her face but he takes her hands in his and holds them tightly.

She struggles to get the words out: “K-kill…t-tried k-k-kill…”

“Mors? Tried to kill who: Tormund? Gods be good, why am I surprised… Did you try to stop him, Sansa? That was very dangerous-“

She shakes her heads again, and she fleetingly wonders if it is better that he not know the truth. But she knows that she has lied enough to him already, and she does not want him to think the man Tormund in any way responsible for what has happened.

“N-no,” she manages in a choked hush, “k-kill…me.”

His eyes widen in shock then his brow furrows deeper. “Kill you, Sansa? But why should Mors try to kill you: it’s the wildlings he hates…hated-“

Tears well up in Sansa’s eyes again. “Kill me…s-say T-t-tormun’.” She slips her hand out of his and touches her fingertips to his chest. “You…kill him…wil…wildlin’s…” When he only stares at her, Sansa fumbles behind her clumsily until her hand closes on the wildling’s dagger. “Kill me wit’,” and she nods to the storeroom.

He is staring glassily at her now, and his eyes stray to the big, sharp dagger in her hand and suddenly he exhales hugely and throws his hands up over his face.

“Oh gods be fucked from here to the Wall!” he exclaims loudly as he rocks his body. “Sansa! Sansa! He almost killed you! I never thought this could happen,” he throws his arms around her and pulls her close, heedless of her injuries, and cradles her protectively as he continues rocking them together. “Gods, my Sansa! Forgive me, I- I never could have thought he would-“ He exhales in a rush again and shakes his head helplessly.

Sansa wriggles to lessen his grip on her and looks up at him.

“’Push ‘m o’er. S-sorry,” she whispers again, “sorry.”

“Gods, Sansa, it’s not your fault. I’m supposed to protect you and…and I’ve failed again! Blast me…and him! Gods, what was he thinking?”

“Hate…h-hate w-wildlin’s…S-sorry…I…k-kill ‘im,” she tells him shakily, “d-didn’ mean…did’n’ wan’ die…leave you…chil’ren…”

The Greatjon swallows his grief visibly. He takes her face in his hands tenderly, and leans his forehead into hers.

“I don’t want you to die either, Sansa; or leave me…or the children,” he tells her in a voice choked with emotion. “You did right to save yourself, and the wildling. We have years together, Sansa…Remember? Don’t you leave me; and I promise I won’t leave you.”

She sobs once now, faintly. “Love you,” she whispers shakily.

“I love you too, my Sansa,” he murmurs and takes her in his arms again.

She closes her eyes to savour the warmth and strength and the protection of his love; and when she opens them again, she sees his son, Lord Jon, at the bottom of the steps staring up at them with stony eyes.


	50. Chapter 50

The maester passes his fingers gingerly over Sansa’s throat but she cannot help flinching even at this light touch. He grimaces to see her suffer and turns to the Greatjon.

“I fear there will be considerable bruising, my lord, and I would advise that Lady Umber not speak for at least a sennight. It is too soon to say if the very forceful pressure will have done any permanent damage to my lady’s voice.”

Sansa is startled to hear that her voice could be irreparably damaged, and her heart plummets inside her.

_Mayhaps I shall never sing again,_ she thinks desolately. _My lord and my children love to hear me sing for them._

Her husband sees her dismay and pats her shoulder gently to reassure her.

“You will heal, Sansa. All will be well again.”

Sansa looks down to where Mors still lies at the bottom of the steps and shakes her head sadly. His brother, Hother, who has returned with Lord Jon and the maester, is also shaking his head.

“I don’t know what the fuck- oh, excuse me, my lady,” he says with unaccustomed solicitousness. “I can’t imagine what was going through is head.”

“He said nothing of this to you,” the Greatjon asks sharply.

“Fuck, no- Oh,” catches himself again. “He complained about the wildlings but when has he not? Said something needed to be done but I thought he was just grumbling as he always has. Who would have thought he would have tried something this- this- this was madness! We all knew you’d kill for your lady, but I never thought he intended to put it to the test.” He turns to the Greatjon again: “What’s to be done with him, then?”

Lord Jon clears his throat and looks to his father. “Best everyone else in the castle thinks he fell,” he advises in a low and steady voice. “He can’t hurt anyone else now so why stir up talk and bad feelings? There may well be others with grudges against the wildlings: they were our enemy for longer than they have been our allies, after all. We don’t want all this to have the outcome he intended,” he warns them quietly.

The Greatjon ponders his words but when Sansa nods to him he makes up his mind. “Alright then: this stays between us alone…forever,” he intones the last word firmly. He sighs resignedly now. “Bring some men to carry to the hall to be laid out; if it’s to be an accident, he’ll needs be shown every respect as an Umber.”

His uncle Hother looks at him almost reproachfully now. “He wasn’t always like this,” he reminds his nephew.

The Greatjon stares regretfully down at the broken body at the bottom of the steps. “I know,” he concedes quietly.

Sansa tugs lightly on his sleeve now and, when he turns to her, points into the storeroom.

“How’s the wildling?” he asks the maester now.

“Oh, I cannot truly say until he wakes, my lord; I do not know how many drops he was given. He is breathing normally and his colour is healthy enough,” he replies unconcernedly. “It may be some time before he wakes: sweetsleep can bring on a deep and prolonged sleep.”

“Where would he have got it, then?”

“I keep my store of remedies well locked, my lord,” the maester replies with a hint of defensiveness. “It is not possible that he obtained it from another source?”

He glances at Hother who simply shrugs. “It would seem we will never know. My thanks, maester. Take Lady Umber to our chambers, would you? I will needs stay here until they come for him and explain what…what happened.” He offers his hand to Sansa now as she stands and takes both of hers in his great grip. “Sansa…forgive me but we will needs tell the castle that you have suffered a shock to have seen him fall…it is the only way to explain why you are not speaking,” he explains to her. “You will needs cover your neck as well somehow: have your maid help you.”

She shakes her head now and turns his palm over when he looks confused. She traces a letter B with her fingertip, and then again until he understands.

“Berena?” he asks, and she nods. “Aye,” he agrees, “we can trust her. Maester, please send Berena to my lady and tell her what happened…what truly happened here; and let her tend my lady. Go with him now, Sansa. I will be along when I can.”

……

Berena follows the maester’s directions for once. She has Sansa lie down with warm compresses held to her throat, and she brings her honeyed tea and mulled wine and broth to drink until she feels able to chew and swallow without difficulty. The older woman helps her to dress in high-necked woolen gowns with embroidered scarves around her neck, and Sansa is grateful that she is to appear to be in mourning and that it is still Winter so that she is not too warm under all the cloth that covers her slender throat.

She joins her husband and children and other members of the family and castle to stand vigil for Mors in the Great Hall of the Last Hearth. The maester had done his best to re-align his head on his neck but Sansa can barely bring herself to look at him and, though she desperately needs the comfort of her husband’s strength, she refrains from tucking her hand into the crook of his arm as they stand side-by-side at the head of the table and later in the crypts as he is buried in the vaults that line the stone walls, all with the name UMBER carved into the granite markers.

_Both my lord and I will be buried in these crypts one day: side by side_ , she cannot help thinking, and her need to touch him is suddenly even stronger.

He has had little time to spare in her company in the days immediately after Mors’ death. There are carpenters and stonemasons to deal with, and without her voice Sansa cannot help him. He comes to their bed late and crawls in naked beside her and sets to snoring almost immediately as Sansa lies awake with her terrible memories and worse dreams. The hour of the ghosts is precisely that for her as both Mors’ face while alive and his body when dead appear whenever she closes her eyes. Sometimes she inches closer to the Greatjon and he huffs and snorts and draws her into his arms and resumes snoring, protecting her even though he is scarcely awake. She is comforted for a while and finally sleeps, but he is gone when she wakes again, having risen to join the garrison in the training yard.

Hother has been given full charge of the castle in his brother’s place and has needed consult with her briefly, carefully limiting his questions or comments to those requiring only _yes_ or _no_ answers so that she can nod  or shake her head in reply. On his next visit, he brings her a wax tablet to write on, and she smiles at his thoughtfulness which she had never expected of him: she has killed his brother and his constant companion and drinking partner. She bites her lip to write her first lines to him.

_I am so very sorry for what happened._

The big old man blinks, embarrassed, and replies to her: “I’m sorry myself, my lady. I didn’t know how bad his anger had gotten…to have tried to do the thing he tried. I wish…he was my brother…I wish he’d told me.” He nods resolutely now. “He should have told me: I’d have straightened him out. Well, there’s no fixing it now. Got to keep going is all,” and he sniffs and nods again, and Sansa realizes just how much he misses his brother and wishes that he could have helped him beyond sharing tankards of ale and engaging in bawdy talk and jests. _His pain might be as great as Mors ’ever was._ And she wonders why so much that she touches seems to end in struggles and death.

She is brooding on this very thought when Berena comes to bring her another warm compress. She taps her wax tablet so that Berena will read it. She knows the woman only has a rudimentary grasp of her letters, and so she writes simply.

_Why men hate me?_

Berena reads and understands and says: “It weren’t you old Mors hated, milady, t’were the wildlings,” she reminds her. “If anything, he tried to…to hurt you because the lord loves you.”

Sansa writes again: A letter _J_ next to a drawing of a crown, and beneath it a kraken with a line through its neck to signify a head cut off.

“That’ll be meaning King Joffrey and the Greyjoy man who tried to take you,” she asks and Sansa nods. “Well, milady, what I know of men is that what they can’t have, they hate; and what they hate, they wants to destroy. Those men wanted you, and couldna have you, and so they tried each in their way to destroy you.”

Sansa is confused, and she points to the tablet again and to herself and then make the motions of donning a cloak and reluctantly pats the bed on which she is sitting.

“You’re sayin’ that they woulda wed and bed you, milady? No matter: you wouldna ever loved them, or looked to them as protectors…and they’da knowed it and hated you for it, no matter how much they’d a come to your bed for you. They’da had your body and made you have their children, but they’da never had your heart.”

_He wants you to love him…and fear him._ The words spring to her mind unbidden, a distant memory brought forth by Berena’s words, and she understands them both now: the old nurse and Joffrey’s sword shield. But she does not understand why.

“You know how in wars, men don’t just take a city, but they sack it? I’ve never seen it, gods be good, but I’ve heard the tales: folks put to the sword and cities put to the torch and naught left to remember that anything ever stood before then. They takes women as well, from what I’ve heard: tryin’ to make them theirs too. It’d be like they canna stand that all that were someone else’s once, and not theirs,” the woman tried to explain. “They needs be the only ones ever; and so they needs destroy first, and then build the ways _they_ wants it.

Sansa is remembering Cersei’s sly warnings of what Sansa and the other ladies in Maegor’s Holdfast could expect if King’s Landing were sacked; and she thinks of how the Targaryen children were murdered so that none were left alive to challenge her father’s friend Robert’s claim to the throne of Westeros. She shuts her eyes and shudders to remember; and to think that men should see her that way: as a thing to be taken, destroyed and rebuilt as they want. When she opens them again, she sees Lord Jon standing in the doorway of her chambers. It is clear from the look on his face that he has heard Berena’s words; and he is looking at Sansa now with a combination of contriteness and sympathy. He bows his head almost penitently to her.

“Forgive me, my lady: I was searching for you and the children…to say farewell,” he intones with dignity.

_Farewell?_ She furrows her brow and shakes her head, to show that she does not understand.

“I will accompany Prince Oberyn and Tormund Giantsbane back to the Wall early tomorrow…along with soldiers and sledges that will return with the children now at Castle Black. Father has also charged me with finding Mors’ daughter and telling her of…of his passing. Tormund will help me to locate her there among his people.”

Sansa nods now and picks up her tablet to write and then turns it towards him.

_Please give her my sympathy; and pray tell her that she is welcome to return to Last Hearth at any time_ , and she has added beneath: _with my lord’s leave._

Lord Jon nods formally now. “Father has said the same, my lady…you are of one mind,” he adds firmly, and Sansa does not know how to reply, even if she could. “I wish to speak to my little brother and sister, as I may be gone some time and will not be like to return with the orphans. I may go west from the New Gift to the mountains to visit the First Flints,” he tells her. “I would also ask if you would receive Tormund Giantsbane before he must leave. He has been told of what happened in the North tower.” He mentions the place to her without emotion: the place that once meant so very much to both of them as the refuge for their love. He continues speaking: “He has expressed a desire to thank you, and to pay his respects…such as they are for a wildling,” he adds with a wry twist of his mouth.

Sansa nods and he bows again.

“You’ll find Lady Serena in the nursery with milady’s maid to watch her. Young Lord Eddard is like to be with your lord father,” Berena tells him politely, and he bows his gratitude to her as well.

“I thank you, Berena,” he says pointedly and nods thoughtfully to himself as he is leaving.

The wildling Tormund arrives some time later, as Berena is helping her to wrap up her throat in scarves again, and he sees the livid bruises left my Mors’s attempt to kill her and sucks in his breath.

“Hard to see, that, most on a pretty lady; though I’d seen spearwives killed outright. Some cut clean in two…and wights that weren’t but rags and bones,” he says loudly. “Don’t be showing me no letters: har!” He waves away the wax tablet as she picks it up to write. “I’m no maester with any learning: runes’d be all I can read and understand. The Old Tongue’d have little written down anyways,” he explains as he comes to stand before her, and he shakes his head as she starts to rise.

“Don’t you be standing for me neither,” he orders as he looks down on her over his great belly. “You might be the first I ever thought to kneel to…but I won’t, har! What you did…you saved me, and the rest o’ us living on this side now. We won’t forget that. I won’t forget that. You’d be as brave as that crow brother o’ yours; and much prettier too, har! It’d be like they say: _the North remembers_ , and we’re more North than even you Starks and Umbers.”

He winds down, and seems unsure of what to say without a response. Sansa taps her tablet again to have Berena’s attention, and the nurse walks over to see what she has written.

_Children_. “Children,” Berena tells him and looks to Sansa. Sansa puts her hand over her heart, and then hugs herself closely.

“You’ll care for them well, you’re promising me,” the wildling confirms. “That I know; I’ll be owing you Starks everything before you’re done with me…I hope I never chance to meet more o’ you, har!” He laughs at his jests and she smiles for him. Then he bows his head to her as he has seen men in the castle do: this concession to their formality, and this gesture to her, is sincere, she knows.

Once he has left, and Berena after him, Sansa rises to walk back to her chair next to her sewing basket but is startled by a shadow in the doorway and instinctively her hand flies to her throat in fear.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Prince Oberyn speaks smoothly now. “I would have knocked but the door was left opened. I assure you that I will not intrude into the chamber belonging to you and your lord.” Though he speaks reassuringly, he nevertheless glances towards their great bed: large and long enough to fit the Greatjon and covered in soft furs and piled with richly embroidered bolsters, all of them in Sansa’s own needlework. His smile is too satisfied for her comfort and so she keeps her hand at her throat since it helps to keep her arm drawn across her body. Her other arm hugs herself around her waist.

Prince Oberyn notices her stance and smiles both appraisingly and admiringly.

“I wished to express my gratitude for your hospitality, my lady, and my pleasure that we should have finally met after having heard so very much of you from my daughters, and through reports from others,” he tells her enigmatically and then narrows his eyes. “I know this will not be our only meeting, and I very much look forward to meeting again…someday soon, I hope.” He glances towards the bed again. “You will like silks instead,” he grins wickedly before making her an elaborately formal bow and sweeping away from her presence.

Despite the fact that she is standing nearer to the hearth, Sansa feels cold all over now. The crackling sound of burning logs offers no comfort, nor do the familiar surroundings and possessions belonging to her and to her husbands in their shared rooms of nearly more than five years now.

_He wants you to love him…and fear him,_ she remembers again.


	51. Chapter 51

Berena looks doubtful as she helps Sansa wrap her throat with a soft scarf against the morning cold, but her lady insists and nods to her fur-lined cloak that is hanging inside the door of her chambers.

“Is a bitter cold morning, milady, though the sun be shining brightly: colder than we’ve had in a fortnight, I’ll wager.”

Sansa smiles and nods and holds her hands up to indicate that she needs her fur-lined gloves as well. Berena sighs and knows she will not change her lady’s mind this morning, but she smiles back to her nevertheless.

Sansa had watched from a window overlooking the yard as her husband and children had seen Lord Jon, Tormund Giantsbane and Prince Oberyn Martell off for their return trip to the Wall in the early light. With them went soldiers with sledges and blankets to bring wildling orphans back to Last Hearth. Since Sansa had already heard the good-byes of the wildling leader and the Dornish prince, she did not feel that her presence was necessary; and she now felt ill-at-ease in the company of Prince Oberyn. He had spent the entire night previous in the solar smiling at her like a contented cat, though the Greatjon was present, and her tummy had been as fluttery as though she had swallowed a bat: just as it had whenever Joffrey had looked at her after he had ordered her father’s head struck off. But unlike Joffrey, the prince had not been looking for signs that she would displease him or not be a suitable queen or mate; when Oberyn Martell looked at her appraisingly, it was very clear that he liked what he saw. Sansa did not know what to think or where to look.

_Does he expect that I will come to him, and give myself? Does he believe that I will run off to Dorne? Whatever can I have done for him to think such a thing? Do I needs fear him, as I did Joffrey and Theon?_

He did not seem to need a woman so desperately as that, for when he had first come to Last Hearth her husband had murmured privately to her of his scandalous past, including reputed relations with men; and of his current paramour: a Dornish woman, a bastard by birth, who had given him four more natural daughters. The Greatjon had told her that the prince spoke freely of such things and laughed when met with shock or reproach. It pleased her that her husband confided in her, even if what he told her was, well, quite wicked; and at least he did not make bawdy jests with her, as he did with his eldest son and uncles.

“They live and love very differently in Dorne, Sansa,” the Greatjon had told her one night, with more amusement than censure.

_Indeed they must,_ Sansa had thought then, as she felt the sly prince’s dark eyes on her; and she was certain she did not wish to know how differently: now or ever.

She walks purposefully through the halls now: her husband and children have not returned inside the castle though the party heading North has left and the gates have long been closed. Soldiers and servants greet her warmly and respectfully, and she nods kindly in acknowledgement. She has not spoken to anyone since Mors fell and died at her hand, and so still does not know if her voice has or will ever recover from his brutal attempt to choke the life and breath from her so as to initiate a war between the Northerners and the wildlings who have settled in the Gift south of the Wall. She still suffers nightmares, and her husband still draws her close in his sleep.

She does not find them in the yard, nor in the stables or the armoury or the forge where her children like to watch the sparks fly as the bellows blow air into the hot coals and the smith brings his hammer down on the searing steel of tools or weapons or horseshoes; and then to hear the steaming hiss when they are dunked in a trough of cold water. What Sansa can hear over that hiss now is the high-pitched squeal of her daughter’s laughter, followed by the treble piping of her son’s calls and then the booming voice and laugh of the Greatjon. She follows the sounds into the godswood.

Far deeper into the trees beyond the great weirwood, she spies her renowned warrior husband who is besieged on both sides by their small children with his arms raised in surrender as they fling and pelt him with snowballs. He flinches and staggers comically, as though he were being stoned with sharp rocks or lead balls from slingshots, and makes his son and daughter laugh wildly; but Sansa sees that he is red-faced and coughing from having been so long in the sharp cold. Still, she cannot help but smile and recall her own childhood snowball fights and her heart warms to see her husband’s kind indulgence of their children’s play. She wonders again fleetingly what her father would think to see them together as a family.

“Mama,” Serena calls when she sees her: “Da play wit’ us! Come an’ play too!”

Her daughter’s words are followed by a piercing shriek that she emits as she is struck with a snowball to the back of her head, and she squirms and dances as the frigid remnants slide down into her collar. “No fair!”

“It’s a fight, silly,” her brother upbraids her. “It’s not supposed to be fair.”

“That’s enough, Eddard,” his father wheezes, out of breath. “Don’t talk that way to your sister. Serena, put your hood up if you would not get snow down your back: see your mother is coming to scold me for letting you get wet under your clothes.”

Sansa merely shakes her head slowly.

“Ah, I forgot you cannot speak: then we may do as we please without reproach,” he exults triumphantly.

Sansa shakes her head again though her eyes smile at him.

“Talk, Mama,” Serena implores her.

“Please, Mother,” her son adds, “talk and sing for us again?”

“When the maester says she can, she will,” their father consoles them and her when he sees her smile fade to sadness. “Come along then, enough play for one morning. You have lessons with the maester, Eddard; and Serena needs change into dry garb before she catches a chill like your old man did beyond the Wall,” he coughs raspingly.

Once their son is left with the maester and their daughter is with her nurse, Sansa and the Greatjon return to their chambers to shed their heavy cloaks and scarves, and Sansa looks at her husband with a pained expression when he coughs forcefully again.

“It’s alright, Sansa: I’ll drink more of that vile tea and stay out of the cold for a day or two until I’m right again,” he concedes to her, knowing that he had been improving steadily and has now relapsed due to his carelessness. “We were just playing, and it felt good to hear them laugh and to remember…” He trails off and shakes his head as though to clear it, but Sansa believes he is remembering playing with the younger sons and daughters of his first wife, all of whom are either dead or gone; and so she lifts her hand tenderly to his cheek and smiles sadly in sympathy.

The Greatjon pats her hand and then looks at her appraisingly. “Come sit, Sansa: let me see how you are healing,” he commands gently. She sits on the end of their great bed as he pulls up his chair and sits facing her. She has a linen shirt beneath her high-necked gown so that he reaches to untie the cord gently before lowering it and parting the sides of her collar with thick fingertips that brush lightly against her skin. He narrows his eyes beneath lowered brows to see that she is still marked, though the livid bluish-purple bruises have faded to a jaundiced yellow with greenish outlines. He trails his fingertips down her neck slowly which makes her flush, and then he impulsively leans in and kisses her throat. Sansa drops her eyes demurely and stares down at her clasped hands in her lap. He leans forward again to try to catch her eye.

“It’s better than it was, Sansa,” he consoles her. “It will look fine soon enough.”

She shakes her head and avoids his gaze.

“What’s that you say? Oh, you didn’t.” He sighs.

“H’can you bear to look at me?” she whispers ever so faintly.

“You’re always beautiful, Sansa,” he reassures her now.

“No. I killed a man…your uncle.” It pains her so much to say it that she turns her head further away from him.

But the Greatjon puts his finger under her chin and firmly turns her head back to him. “You were right to save yourself, Sansa: I have told you already. Besides, do you know how many men I have killed? I’ve been making corpses out of men since before you were born…before your parents even met.”

She shakes her head once more. “War. Soldiers; not family,” she whispers insistently.

He pauses now and she can see that he is affected by her words; but he presses on.

“Sansa,” he begins resolutely now after taking a deep breath, “anyone who needs save themselves or the ones they love is fighting a war like a soldier…doesn’t matter who they needs kill: it needs be done,” he tells her. “Takes my hands now,” he murmurs as he hold his out to hers in her lap,” and look at them; not at me, and keep looking at them until I tell you not to.” His voice and countenance are grave, and Sansa fears what he may say next; fears that she has lost his love and that he does not want her to see it in his eyes. “It’s time I told you about Robb, Sansa,” is what he tells her now.

Sansa gasps slightly and instinctively holds his hands tighter but she does not look up at him. Already she feels the tears gathering behind her eyes but she purses her lips and nods quickly so that he will continue.

“We had set out very early from the Wall that morning,” he begins and he sounds as though he is far away from Last Hearth already, “barely dawn, and cold: harsh, bitter cold with dark grey skies and a wind that cut through our furs like they were Southron Summer silks, even in the woods; and the snows so deep that we dismounted and led our horses by their reins. We plodded through that deep snow up to our knees, sinking in deeper with every bloody step until our feet were numb with wet and cold. But we kept on, the lot of us: the king, myself, wildling guides and men from Winterfell and Last Hearth and even some from the Dreadfort and White Harbor wanted to follow their king into battle.”

“It got darker and colder all of a sudden, and the horses started tossing their heads to break away and run,” he continues and she grips his fingers, four on one hand and only two on the other: courtesy of Grey Wind. “That direwolf knew already though: paused all alert and whined before growling low. You can’t imagine the cold: so cold the very air freezes into a mist of ice. Even a Northman can barely breathe in cold like that. We had our swords out and out torches burning but still they came, taking those on our edges with a near sucking-air sound as they were dragged away so quickly they hadn’t chanced to even cry out. Eerie how they did that,” he seems to say almost to himself, “and hard to fight what you can’t even see. The king and I exchanged looks and I saw he felt it too: this would be like nothing we’d ever fought before…and it might be we weren’t ready. But we pressed on.”

Sansa is beginning to shake; even the feeling of her husband absently running his thumbs over hers does not soothe her nerves.

“It stayed dark, though it never seemed to be night; and we were all exhausted from cold and wandering. Every once in a while we would look back to see there was another horse or man gone. Sometimes there was blood on the snow, sometimes not: just a sword or a torch that had sputtered out when dropped. Our boots were punching holes through the frozen ice over the deep snow as we walked; and we couldn’t decide if it were better to talk to keep ourselves awake or to keep quiet so they wouldn’t hear us, though the wildings said they could smell what lived and from far away too. The wildling guides were almost the last to go: good men too, and brave to come to where they knew what could happen. They knew what was out there and still they came with us,” he seems to scoff with incredulity. “No wonder they fought to come south of the Wall, to kill us who would have sent them back or die trying to stay. And now we didn’t know if it were day or night, or how long even we’d been out ranging; but we knew we needed head back or die; but without sun or even sky to guide us, we didn’t know if we were heading back or further north or in circles. We put our trust in the direwolf to lead us back and followed with our swords drawn and our torches aloft, turning so they couldn’t come up behind. Well, Robb stumbled…my king stumbled…It could just as easily have been me but it wasn’t; and by the time I’d turned, he was gone….just his sword, you father’s sword, lying there in the snow. That direwolf set to whining and running circles around me as I picked up Ice and slung my own sword across by back in its sheath.”

“The silence was a deep one; not a breath of wind nor a sound of bird or beast but for the whining and huffing of that wolf. It was only the two of us now. Well I said to that wolf: _Your sister Lady’s lady is my lady. Get me home to her, and you’ll have a home with us, I promise you that, wolf._ And that wolf set out in a straight line, looking back at me or walking on my flanks as we moved forward, the two of us through that eerie dark and frozen, icy cold. I couldn’t feel my feet or my hands though I carried my torch and Ice, and I had real ice in my beard and my hair and my eyelashes and up my nose but I could feel the pouch around my neck: it seemed the only thing in the world that wasn’t frozen. It held your heart, you had written; and I had to bring it back to you. It was the only thing that kept me from lying down in that snow and going to sleep; that and knowing I wouldn’t sleep, but rise again as a wight and never sleep or be warm again; and that if I did not live and fight that you and the children would someday be wights as well, and my sons and daughters and uncles and everyone we have ever known. And so I walked and walked and that wolf lead me on and circled around me and then all at once everything was still, and that icy mist surrounded me and the direwolf growled and whined and then I saw him…I saw him…”

Hot tears are rolling down Sansa’s cheeks as she stares down at their joined hands and her vision shimmers and blurs and she tightens her hold on her husband’s hands because she knows, she knows without any doubt who he means by _him_ ; and her heart breaks as much as it did when she was told that he was gone: Robb, the King in the North, the Young Wolf and her brother.

“My king…my king and my friend and good-brother…but not,” he pauses and Sansa can tell that he is working up the courage and the heart to tell her what he can hardly bring himself to say to her. “He..he was bloodied from his belly to his face…they must have torn him open,” his voice is anguished and bitter. “I could see his entrails through the tattered mail and leather he still wore; and his face was whiter than snow and ice and his eyes that horrid blue: cold and empty and unseeing; and the black hands. He stood still and just stared at me, and his direwolf barked and barked, this animal that was near a part of him growled and barked and paced back and forth before me: protecting me from him who had once been his master. Then he came at me,” his voice chokes momentarily and then resumes. “Wights are frightful fast and strong, the wildlings had warned us: so much that one the size of a child can bring down an armed man. Well, your brother’d been no child; and so he put me on my back before I knew what had happened…but I had Ice…and I put it right through him…and he only twitched. So I pulled it back and hacked at him while I stuck my torch into him over and over. The things about wights is…even the pieces you cut away will turn and attack you. So I put the torch to every bit I cut away: hands, legs, arms, body…head…I cut off my king’s head to save myself, and put it to the torch. Those bits and pieces went up like dry wood or oilcloth, and flamed up and withered to oily ashes on the snow. There was naught left of him even to bring home to bury…my king.” He grips her own slender hands now and raises them to his lips but does not kiss them. “I killed him, Sansa, your own brother and my king; I had to…or die myself; and I wanted to come home to you…but I feared that you would hate me for what I had to do to get home. I feared that I would lose you either way…” he trails off as his voice drops to silence and he waits.

“No,” she whispers, and then repeats fervently. “No…not Robb. You did not kill him; _they_ did.” She sobs and lifts his hands to her lips now and kisses them over and over. “Not you; _them_ ,” she insists again through her tears and soft, steady sobs. “Not Robb…a monster…like them. I don’t hate you. Could _never_ hate you…my lord, my love…never. Never.”

Her husband pulls a hand from her grasp and then places it gently on top of her head. She feels him lean in closer and he murmurs hoarsely to her:

“And do you think Mors’ hate made him any less a monster, Sansa? You killed what he became; not who he was. You saved yourself…as I had needed to do.”


	52. Chapter 52

Sansa feels how close he is to her now. His head is beside hers, and he has spoken his reassuring words in her ear. She still clings to his one hand but he has not told her to raise her eyes to him yet.

“Please,” she whispers now, “can I look-“

Before she finishes her words, he has drawn his hand on her head down to cup her cheek and turned her face to his.

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” he tells her contritely in his deep voice.

She shakes her head again and whispers passionately:  “Not your fault. Sorry you needed…” _I’m sorry you needed to kill my brother’s revived corpse?_ The idea was too horrible: that it happened, and that he needed to do it to save himself. She did not want to think of it. “Love you,” she tells him instead, and she hopes it is enough.

He closes his eyes tightly and then opens them. “I- I wonder if that is not more than I deserve, Sansa; but I am grateful,” he tells her with sincere humility.

She reaches shakily to cup his cheek as he is doing to hers. “Hold me,” she implores.

Her husband nods and puts his arms around her gently, then pats her head and her back to comfort her. But she shakes her head again and looks up into his eyes and sinks her fingers into the fur around his neck.

“ _Hold me_ ,” she tells him intently now.

The Greatjon stares back at her hesitantly before leaning in and brushing his lips against hers. As soon as he does, she grips his fur collar and kisses him hard with a strong passion and urgency that come upon her so suddenly that she feels that she cannot ever be close enough to him. She slides her bottom forward on the edge of the bed so that she can try to press herself to him. His hand closes on the back of her neck and he returns her kiss with equal passion.

“Ump,” she breathes into his mouth, a wordless encouragement: an affirmation.

With that sound, he pulls her into his arms and holds her closer, and then closer still so that she is nearly breathless. He moves to rise suddenly and takes her with him, and she instinctively wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist as he walks until he bumps into her dressing table where he sets her down on her bottom with a crash that sends her mirror onto a rug with a dull thud and her scent bottles and hairbrushes scattering over the surface.

They breathe heavily as they tug and scramble to remove what they need to remove of each other’s clothing. Sansa draws on the ties of his furs and his breeches as he reaches under her gown to grasp and pull off her smallclothes. With a grunt of effort, he hooks his arm behind her knee and pulls her leg up nearly to his shoulder, opening her to his engorged member that she has freed from his lacings and angled to enter her. He thrusts into her sharply with a strangled shout, burying himself to the hilt in her warm, wet softness as she gasps and lets her head fall back in surrender to his possession of her. He holds himself inside her: tense and still; and then he mutters close to her ear:

“I promised myself…I would be good to you,” he pants with a tight voice.

“It’s good,” she whispers dreamily, “my love, it’s good.”

His breath leaves him in a rush of relief now, and he bucks his hips against the table as it squeaks and shakes so that Sansa fleetingly wonders if it may collapse beneath them; but she does not care enough to stop.

“Please don’t stop,” she cries softly, even as his arm pulls her leg up higher and he fairly rams himself into her with deep, sharp thrusts that are racking her body and turning her mind to mush.

“Look at me , you wild wolf,” he growls; and when she lifts her head she sees his fevered intensity when he locks eyes with her and bring his face closer to hers. Sansa feels all aflame and, without thinking, she suddenly sinks her teeth around his lower lip and sucks fiercely.

He grunts loudly, whether from pain or passion she is not certain nor does she care. Her pleasure is coursing through her and making her heart pound so that she feels she will needs tear her bodice open or it will burst. But he has lifted her from the table with his free arm slung under her behind and is now staggering with her held against him until her back is pressed against the stone wall. He braces his feet wider apart and puts both his great warm strong hands beneath her bottom to lift her up and lower her so that she is riding his manhood in quick, long stokes. She has locked her feet together high up his back, and now she buries her face in his neck beneath his beard, licking and nipping at the warm skin from his ear to his shoulder until she once again fixes her mouth on him to suck as though she would feast at his very marrow.

She has never been with him like this: this fierce and rough and passionate coupling that makes her feel so alive: she wants to feel alive; yes, and so close to him.

_We’ve both fought our battles and cheated death; and though we have lost those we loved, we are both here and alive._

Her pleasure is heightened to such a near-peak that she fears that she may scream at her release but her husband suddenly grabs her hair in a fist and pulls hard so that her head once again falls back and he covers her mouth with his, breathing her in so deeply that she feels a part of him. They both keen and pants desperately and finally he grunts and grimaces and drops his head and sinks his face into her hair as she clutches madly at his back and shoulders when he gives a last hard thrust and empties into her with pulsing throbs that she can feel as her own peak courses through her from her hairline to her toes and she gasps and sighs and all the delicious tension in her subsides and she goes limp in his arms as her feet reach the floor unsteadily.

“Hm?’ she asks almost sleepily now.

“Have I hurt you, Sansa?’ he murmurs into her neck as he still holds her to him and against the cold stone wall.

She shakes her head quickly now. “No,” she breathes, “I-“

“What?” he asks still without looking at her.

“I…I don’t know what came over me; I- My lord, I wanted so much to be close to you,” she whispers still because her voice is weak though she is not. “I- wasn’t…I fear I was not a lady…just now.”

He raises his head to look at her, and his eyes are full of such a tender fondness that she is moved nearly to tears.

“You’re _my_ lady, Sansa,” he tells her and kisses her forehead reverently, “and you are all the lady I need.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she replies hoarsely and runs her hands up around his neck again. “Thank you.” She ducks her head, both pleased and embarrassed by her brazenness now. But he breaks their reverie with talk of duty.

“Well,” he remarks lightly, “I expect we each needs return to our tasks before the castle thinks we have abandoned them?”

“Y-yes, my lord,” she smiles timidly and then moves hesitantly towards her basin and then more purposefully when he makes to follow her. She pours water from the pitcher into the basin and soaks a linen and hands it to him before soaking and wringing out one for herself. He wipes himself off hastily, almost wincing at his own roughness before eyeing his own member appraisingly.

“My battered sword may need to be re-forged after that,” he jests as he tucks it back into his breeches and Sansa first raises her eyebrows in surprise before blushing and giggling. He smiles and tosses his own linen back into the basin before he takes hers from her hand.

“Lift your skirts now, Sansa, and let me tend you,” he tells her gently but firmly.

Sansa bites her lip and drops her eyes as she obeys, slowly raising her skirts and gathering them in her arms. With an appreciative growl, the Greatjon tenderly washes her thighs and between her legs with slow strokes of the moistened linen towel.

“Where did I drop your smallclothes then?” he questions absently.

Sansa nods to where her dressing table is in disarray, and her smallclothes lie on the bearskin rug in a little pool of soft fabric. He walks over and bends to retrieve them before walking back.

“Step into them now, that’s a good girl,” he mutters as he holds them and then glides them up her legs. Sansa reaches then and ties the ribbon ties in a dainty bow and they both lower and smooth her skirts back down. He steps back now to admire her.

“We look the proper lord and lady again now,” he nods approvingly.

“We do,” she whispers hoarsely still though with a smile, and he furrows his brow in concern.

“Save your voice now, Sansa; until the maester says you’re healed. I should not have taxed you so…” he looks at her regretfully now.

“I am pleased that you did, my lord,” and she means so very much by her words that she hopes he understands.

He smiles and gives her a merry wink. “So am I, Sansa,” and she sees that he understands. “So am I.”

…….

Sansa joins the women of the castle to help organize chambers for the expected orphans. They gather blankets and linens, and sort through piles of clothing that require mending or fitting on the children once they arrive. Sansa is pleased with their work but concerned that they may not have enough.

Berena looks at her hesitantly, and so Sansa raises her brow questioningly. She still does not speak unless absolutely necessary; and if she must, she whispers softly.

“There be garb the children have outgrown, milady…though some be fancier than wildling children may need,” she ventures respectfully.

Sansa knows that the old nurse refers to her children, and to the fact that there are no younger children of hers to fit into their old clothes. Pain grips her heart and she feels her throat tighten as she thinks on all the pretty little dresses she has stitched for Serena, and the tunics with Umber colours she had fashioned for young Eddard that he hates but makes her proud to see him wear. But there are real children who need the clothing, she knows; and hanging onto hope at their expense is not a reasonable choice right now, not when rations are still so limited. She nods resolutely to Berena.

“Use all,” she whispers looking the woman straight in the eye.

The woman holds her gaze a moment longer and nods back. “As you say, milady.”

That night in the Great Hall, the Greatjon stands to announce the eventual arrival of the wildling children to the people of Last Hearth. Sansa stands beside him with her hands clasped together before her and her head high.

“These children we take in will be orphans, and in need of care and kindness,” he intones firmly, “and any that thinks that can’t be kind to wildling children will have leave to go…because neither I nor Lady Umber will stand for them to be treated roughly or scornfully: they are Northerners now, and in our charge. Discipline will be left to their wildling guardians or their masters if they take up a trade; and judgement is my province as your lord. Anyone who dares mistreat them, or even one, will be put out the gates to make their own way. That is all I have to say.”

When they sit down to eat, Eddard squirms and casts glances at his father until the Greatjon sets down his spoon and leans his elbows on the table as he stares across at his son. “Well, boy, will you tell me what troubles you, or will you shift about in your seat like you have any itchy behind all night?”

Serena laughs with her mouth full. “Itchy behind, Mama! Eddard gotta itchy behind.”

“Hush,” she whispers softly with a finger to her lips and turns her disapproving gaze to her husband.

He nods conciliatorily to her. “Mind your manners, Serena: your mother has taught you better than that.”

“But _you_ said first!” she wails in protest.

“I’m not a lady,” he counters, “and I never will be; but you will.”

Serena sits back and pouts, and so Sansa reaches to pat her hand reassuringly. “Be good, little bird,” she whispers to her now, and she nods to the girl’s bowl to indicate that she should finish eating. Sansa straightens her back now and picks her own spoon up and eats daintily; after a moment, her daughter does the same.

“Father, will the wildlings train to fight with us?” Eddard asks tentatively.

The Greatjon nods slowly now. “That bother you, boy? They needs learn to defend themselves same as we do; and their land is wilder than ours and closer to the Wall too. We want men and boys who can fight with us if the Others come again, don’t we?”

Eddard seems to think on his father’s words before nodding back. “Yes, Father. I guess so.”

“Good boy,” he tells his son. “Now I expect both of you to be kind to those wildling children: you’re the lord’s children and so will set the example to the other children here. Welcome them and be kind and share, just like you’ve been taught to do with the other children in the castle. Do you understand?”

Both children nod obediently now and their father smiles happily at them. “I knew you’d make your mother and me proud,” he beams. “Is that not so, Sansa?”

She smiles back to him and whispers her reply: “Yes: proud.” Proud is how she feels to be his wife, and mother to his children.

When they retire to their chambers that night, it is the Greatjon’s turn to pile bearskin rugs and furs before the hearth. When Sansa looks at him questioningly, he smiles, though somewhat sadly.

“I’d like to sleep near the fire if you don’t mind, Sansa…after talk of beyond the Wall, I needs feel warm again.”

Sansa nods encouragingly, and after her maid leaves she drapes her robe over the chair of her dressing table and moves to lie with him atop and under the furs. He takes her in his arms as soon as she is beside him and when their eyes meet there is no need for words. Their love is like sweet music this night: slow and gentle yet passionate; and Sansa feels her peak is like a high note of a song that is held and drawn out before a verse ends. She understands better now what _having a song from you_ means; and she wonders again fleetingly what has become of Sandor Clegane, and if he still thinks of her as well.

“Was that more to your liking then, Sansa?” her husband asks hoarsely as he lies back on the furs and clears his throat.

“It was lovely, my lord,” she whispers, “I am sorry if I was…if I was rather brazen this midday…but…but I-“

“Sh, sh, I understand, Sansa: death makes us want to feel alive; there’s naught to be sorry for. You’ve known too much loss and heartache for a young lady…tell me now: have you even twenty years yet?” he asks her.

She smiles against his skin where she has laid her head on his chest. “I will within another moon’s turn, my lord.”

He tilts his head to look down at her where she is nestled in the crook of his arm and smiles.

“Your twentieth name day, is it? And how would my lady like to celebrate?”

Sansa lifts her head to smile at him. She looks down the length of his long and strong body and feigns an indifferent shrug that makes him laugh and hold her tighter. She laughs softly as well.

“If I have chance to spend my name day with you and the children, my lord, I shall be ever so happy,” she whispers sincerely. “I love them as I love you: with all my heart. If I may spend all my days with you like this one, then I shall always be content.”

He turns his head to look at her now, and then lifts a large hand to trace the curve of her cheek and jaw with his fingertip.

“My own Sansa,” he breathes, and she nods slowly.

“Yes, yours,” she whispers and kisses his hand and then his lips tenderly.

He pulls her down next to him again and holds her close. “Sleep now, my Sansa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy on the fluff this time: I thought they needed it.
> 
> Thank you to SharkAria for her story "Seven and Two" with her portrayal of a feisty daughter of Sansa and Sandor that inspired Serena's stubborn willfulness, though hers is an Umber trait.


	53. Chapter 53

“Sansa?”

“Yes, my lord?” She is walking towards the solar when her husband comes into the dim hallway to look for her. He looks serious now, and so she hopes that nothing is amiss. He holds out his hand to her and she hurries towards him but when she sees the delight in his eyes before he breaks into a smile for her, she knows that all is well.

“Gifts for you…from Dorne. Come now,” he tells her.

There in the solar is an opened crate with its rough wooden top lying against its side and straw scattered around the floor. On the table are several large leather-bound tomes and two smaller leather cases with spring fastenings.

“Prince Oberyn has been good to his word, my lady,” the maester tells her now, “and has sent you these works on childbearing from his days at the Citadel…there is another work on herblore,” he adds dismissively. “The strong box contains oils such as those he offered for the treatment of your chest cold, my lord,” he says to the Greatjon now, and he and Sansa exchange knowing glances before looking away from each other and back to the maester.

“Do you disapprove that my lady should learn herblore then, maester?” the Greatjon asks the man. “Certainly you make use of the herbs that are grown in the castle garden as well as those you gather from the nearby woods and pastures?”

“Indeed, my lord, as I am trained in their cultivation and uses and most importantly in the proper administration and dosages of such remedies. Forgive me if I believe that such a study must be a dedicated one; not a passing fancy,” he says carefully.

“Then I trust that I may come to you with any questions, maester, so that I do not misunderstand such serious matters,” Sansa says smilingly.

“Of course, my lady,” he obliges her politely as he turns back with the smaller leather case. “Shall I open this one, my lord?”

The Greatjon is reading the scroll that is enclosed with the goods and looks up now. “Hm? Oh, that is for Lady Umber: it says so here is the prince’s own hand. It is a gift to thank us for our hospitality, Sansa. He says that he believes that I already have everything a man can want, and so he offers a gift to my lady instead. Go on, open it,” he prompts her mildly.

Sansa springs the little catch with a withheld breath, but then gasps audibly when she sees what is inside. Then she blanches and feels cold all over, even with the hearth fire of the solar built high.

“What is it, Sansa?” her husband asks now as he comes to stand beside her.

Inside a leather case lined with deep red silk sits an elaborate necklace wrought in gold and fine gems in the shape of a fiery sun. The centre is a large ruby, and the fashioned rays encircling it are studded with amber stones. The chain is heavy gold links, and she can imagine the weight of it around her collar just by looking at it. She cannot help feeling that he is branding her with his sigil, only without the lethal spear that pierces the sun.

“Ah, quite…extravagant,” the Greatjon remarks hesitantly. “Very generous, is it not, Sansa?”

She cannot help shaking her head. “It- It is quite extravagant: you are right, my lord. And very Southron,” she adds, knowing that is what he is thinking and so will not chide her for disliking a gift sent by a man that he counts as a friend. “I fear it is very costly, as well, my lord and so mayhaps I should refuse-“

He waves her concern away. “Prince Oberyn and Prince Doran likely wear more jewels and finery that this in their palaces when breaking their fast. The Dornish are like that, Sansa: decked out almost like courtesans for everyday. I’m sure he means well by it; and those red and dark yellow stones will flatter your hair, I am certain,” he smiles at her now.

She returns an uncomfortable smile. “If…if it please you, my lord,” she replies and closes the case carefully before setting it back on the table. She peers into the crate which she can see is still half-full.

“The rest are Dornish wines,” the Greatjon tells her and the maester. “Best have them brought to the cellars then…unless you would like to keep some upstairs, Sansa?”

“No, thank you, my lord,” she answers quickly. “I prefer Arbor wines, as you know,” she adds with a more certain smile. He does know her preference and ensures that cases of Arbor gold are brought from White Harbor when they arrive in port. She had needed to insist that bringing in lemons in winter was an unnecessary extravagance, and that he had not needed to do so just to please her. She could not in good conscience enjoy delicacies when everyone was supposed to be on rations, she had reminded him. She wonders now how many crates of lemons Prince Oberyn’s necklace would have brought; and thinks that they should have left a less sour taste in her mouth that his sun in splendor blazing around her neck. She continually needs to sit up and square her shoulders as they dine in the Great Hall that night; she finds that she is hunching over instinctively, to attempt to hide it from view and rid herself of its weight. But the Greajon bid her wear it and she has obeyed him dutifully though she feels that she would almost rather dine in the hall naked.

“Why d’you laugh, Mama?” Serena asks her now when she overhears her mother’s mirthless snort.

Sansa smiles at her daughter across the table. “I was thinking how nice it should be to truly see the great sun and to feel its warmth again.” It has been cloudy and damp for sennight and, though it is less cold, her husband’s cough has been worrisomely persistent.

“Guess we’ll needs make do with that gaudy mess you’ve been gifted instead; least ‘til Spring comes,” Uncle Hother grumbles from where he is seated next to Eddard. He has been dining in company with them since Mors was buried in the crypts. “Is that right, then: giving jewels to another man’s wife now? Don’t seem right somehow,” he continues.

“Gifts should be honoured; and I’ll not be one to give insult, nor will Lady Umber,” the Greatjon states firmly to him in a manner that indicates that the subject is closed.

Later, attendants bring the large tub and buckets of water for the lord’s bath, and Sansa empties a glass vial of the eucalyptus oil into the hot water. Once he has settled behind the screen and the attendants have left he calls to her:

“Sansa,” he clears his throat, “do you mean to join me?”

She steps behind the screen now dressed in her robe which she lets drop once he sees her there. He nods approvingly when he sees the necklace around her neck.

“That is more like it,” he murmurs when he recognizes the simpler garnet pendant he had once gifted her. It is the only thing she wears beneath her robe.

“Yes, I prefer the gifts _you_ bestow on me, my lord,” she smiles slyly as she steps into his bath and settles across his lap.

“Let’s make use of this oil then…after all, it was a gift and a gift should be honoured,” he jests merrily he reaches for her.

Later, when they are beneath the furs in their bed, he speaks again:

“It was good of you to wear the necklace, Sansa; even if you don’t like it. Best we not give insult to the Martells for they are close to the throne now. The queen remembers that her sister-in-law was a Martell of Dorne…and her niece and nephew were half-Dornish.”

“You killed the Mountain: the man who murdered Princess Elia and her son, my lord. Surely that counts for something. And how should they know if I did not wear the necklace?” she asks guilelessly.

He tightens his arms around her and she can hear a low feral growl from deep in his throat.

“Who knows what they know now, Sansa, with that mincing spider back in the service of the throne. Lord Varys,” his voice sneers, “cannot be trusted by anyone. He vanished the night Kings Landing fell to Renly; and though he was not a soldier I feel it was no less desertion on his part, him and that vile little _Imp,_ ” he grumbles darkly. “A Lannister in power again: what was that girl thinking to make him her Hand? It’s as though we never fought at all: your father and brother died for nothing.”

Sansa clings tighter to him now. “Lord Tyrion is Hand again? But surely Queen Daenerys knows that his father’s army was responsible for the sack of Kings Landing during the Rebellion? Why should she trust him?”

“Old Tywin cared nothing for his dwarf son: refused to leave him the Rock when his golden son became a member of the Kingsguard. Mayhaps he wanted revenge: they sent him out into the vanguard when Joffrey’s dog deserted him. It was thought he was dead for the longest time but they never found trace of him: it was years before he was heard to be in the East. And the Imp is cunning, they say.”

“He- he was not so unkind to me as the others,” Sansa ventures, “but he is still a Lannister.” She remembers that he ordered her father’s head and those of his household taken down off the walls of the Red Keep, and how he was the only one to speak up when Joff had her stripped and beaten. But he had disappeared when the battle for Kings Landing had seemed to be over, and probably her life as well; only the Hound had risked himself to protect her.

“Thought our time for bending the knee to Kings Landing was at an end,” he laments, “all my life…had a bellyful of them: Southron kings. We won our independence, and now the little dragon queen wants us back in the fold.”

“How so, my lord?” Sansa whispers to him.

“Lord Manderly says she has asked his unmarried granddaughter to court for the honour of attending her: the honour she calls it. When has anything good come of Northerners going South to court, I ask you?”

“Never,” she whispers flatly.

“Well, mayhaps the Old Man in the North during the Hour of the Wolf: Cregan Stark could handle the Targaryens right enough but he chose to return North,” he ventures until he notices that Sansa has gone completely quiet in his arms.

“Hm? Forgive me, Sansa,” he turns to her now, “I bring back bad memories for you.”

“Do you think…do you think she will ask for children from every Northern house, my lord?” Sansa asks hesitantly.

“She can ask…and we can refuse, or stall her and her council. She is not like to send an army North so soon after taking the throne; and most will not want to come so close to the Wall when they know what’s beyond it,” he growls with satisfaction.  “But it time…we cannot know what she will want from us in time, Sansa.”

“The children…Robb’s children, even Rickon?”

The Greatjon reaches to smooth her hair back from her brow and kisses her forehead and looks into her eyes in the dimness of the glowing fire and the candles that are burning down on the mantle of the hearth.

“Sansa, I promise you that no harm will ever come to you, or to our children, as long as I am alive to protect you, do you understand? I promise you, Sansa,” he murmurs intensely and then kisses her tenderly.

Sansa cups his cheek as she kisses him back. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you.”

……

The air is still damp and the skies are still cloudy when they gather in the yard to greet the sledges full of wildling children when they finally arrive at Last Hearth. Sansa is particularly excited to hear that her youngest brother Rickon is travelling from the Wall in their company on his return journey to Winterfell. He had remained a long time with Jon after Robb’s death; and the Stark family had worried that they would lose another member to the service of the Night’s Watch. But now he is heading home, and Sansa has not seen him since she had left Winterfell to be married.

Her heart fills when he rides through the gates: he resembles a young Robb, and Sansa realizes that he is near two-and ten. He is the same age that she was when she saw her father die, and so he has lived most of his life without him, she realizes. She wonders how well he remembers him, if at all; and now he has lost his oldest brother too. As heartbroken as she has felt to have lost Robb, she wonders how much more he must have meant to Rickon: he would doubtless have been the closest thing he had as a father for most of his young life.

He dismounts his horse and lopes towards them with Shaggydog and Grey Wind at his heels. Robb’s direwolf breaks away suddenly, and heads straight to the Greatjon.

“We meet again, wolf,” her husband murmurs as he reaches to stroke the wolf’s head. Grey Wind sits on his haunches before him. “Told him he’d have a home here if he wanted,” he speaks to Rickon now, “though I expect you want him back in Winterfell.”

“Well, it’s been his home for years now, Lord Umber,” he replies and bows to his host.

“Let that be the last formality between us,” the Greatjon offers his hand warmly and pats the young man on the back. “You’re bigger than even the last time I saw you…though I was near flat-out on my back then. You are welcome at Last Hearth: my lady’s family is my family too.”

“Sansa,” her youngest brother greets her awkwardly and looks her over. “You’re older,” he remarks.

“Yes, Rickon,” she tells him softly, “and so are you. It is so sweet to see you again: it has been so very long,” she opens her arms to embrace him and he stands still for her before stepping back and clearing his throat. She is momentarily hurt, and reminded of how she felt when young Eddard first broke from her embrace.

 _He is almost a man now,_ she realizes. She hopes it is not a lack of affection for her that makes him pull away, but she is uncertain.

She sees over his shoulder that the sledges have come to a halt and that the soldiers are helping the wildling children out to set them down. A few are looking around curiously but not moving from where they stand. She smiles at her youngest brother and makes her excuses.

“Pray forgive us, Rickon: we have very young guests to greet. I promise that we will talk later.”

She follows the Greatjon now to where some wildling women are now gathering smaller children together and they look up warily when her husband approaches them. Sansa suspects that the wildlings are as unsure about Northerners as those at Last Hearth are about wildlings.

“Free folk,” her lord intones respectfully, “you are welcome at Last Hearth. I am Lord Umber, called the Greatjon, and I introduce Lady Umber, my wife and sister to the Warden of the North.”

“Sister to Lord Crow too; and a Stark as well? Tormund said you’d be kissed by fire. That’d be lucky North of the Wall; though red-haired Wights rose as well so they weren’t that lucky,” an gnarled older woman speaks frankly. She is lean and worn-looking and wears ragged furs that match her greying hair. “So…you’re a lord then?”

“I am, woman,” the Greatjon tells her firmly. “And who might you be?”

“Myrtle is my name; and when do we kneel, _Lord_ Umber?”

“You don’t,” he tells her shortly. “You kneel to kings and queens. Men bow their heads to their lord, and ladies curtsey.”

“Best we bow then, Myrtle: we be no ladies,” the other woman cracks and cackles at her.

The Greatjon smiles at that, and then laughs his booming laugh with them. Sansa ducks her head and smiles as well; but inside her mind, a memory stirs:

_I am no knight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is more of a transitional chapter but my knitting obligations are over and so I hope to devote more time to writing than I have been able to do of late. Thank you for hanging in.


	54. Chapter 54

When Sansa raises her eyes again, she sees the faces of the wildling children. They are bundled in ragged and worn furs with pink cheeks and red button noses from cold. But their eyes are wary, or wan from hunger and grief and fear. She draws her breath in sharply. She recognizes those eyes; she has seen them before, in the reflection of the mirror on her dressing table in her chamber in the Red Keep. She remembers now why they have been sent to her and her husband: they are orphans who have lost their families, and her heart aches and softens for them all at once. She has also known monsters in human form, and she has seen men die and lost family. She knows what they feel. She will not be as Cersei was; she will not let them feel uncertain and alone and frightened. She steps forward with a gentle smile.

“Welcome children, and come inside the Great Hall to warm yourselves,” she prompts them. “We have hearth fires to take off the chill and hot food to fill your tummies; and warm beds so that you may rest from your journey. You are safe now: no harm will come to you here. Lord Umber and I have sworn to your leader Tormund to care for you, and we give you our word as well.”

“You heard the lady,” the wildling Myrtle tells them all. “Inside and to eat, she says, so pick up your feet now.”

“Are there many more children still at the Wall?” Sansa asks her as they walk into the castle.

“Aye,” the woman answers shortly, “we brought you those who only just lost their folk. Figured they needed you most; t’others been looked after for a whiles now so they can wait longer…though not much longer with rations being low.”

“My lord brother has sent men from Winterfell to bring them to my family’s castle, and have the lords of Karhold and White Harbor will as well; though Lord Manderly has sent a ship to Eastwatch with provisions and so the Nights Watch will bring the children there.”

“The Flint and Old Norrey have taken some home with them as well,” the woman remarks to her. “We’re a rough lot to your eyes, I reckon; but we don’t forget Lady Umber…is that right then?”

“Yes, I thank you…and shall I call you simply Myrtle?”

“It’s my name; call me other things and I’m like to take offense,” she jests and laughs. “And you don’t want any of the Free Folk taking offense, Lady Umber,” she looks Sansa over, at her fine gown and expertly plaited auburn tresses compared to the wildling’s furs and matted and snarled grey hair, and she smirks slyly.

But when she enters the Great Hall, her laughter fades away and Sansa can see her awe at the size of the hall. Though Last Hearth is smaller and plainer than Winterfell, it is still impressive to anyone who has never been inside a castle before. The Umber have ruled here on the edges of the far North for thousands of years, and the walls are covered with some of their ancient weapons, with the mounted animal heads of wild prey and predators, and with the large bright banners of their powerful sigil of the great giant breaking his chains against a red field. She sees the wildling woman swallow and stare.

 _Let her take it all in,_ Sansa thinks now, _and let her know the strength of House Umber._

Sansa is not vindictive, but she is the lord’s lady wife, and this is his castle, and though the wildlings are their guests they have also agreed to live by their customs and respect their laws. The woman Myrtle needs see and understand what that means. She pauses and waits until the woman looks to her again, and then she smiles graciously.

“Will you not come to sit and eat Myrtle? The kitchen has prepared food for all of you. You must be hungry after your journey, and though we are also on rations we are not stretched so thin as the Nights Watch.”

When the woman simply nods and follows her, Sansa knows that she will not be subjected to more jests or sly retorts. She learns that the other wildling woman is named Willow, and she asks the names of all the children in turn. Most are quiet and some of the boys are sullen but all are hungry, and they hunch over their bowls and eat everything before them and their eyes dart furtively to see if any food is left uneaten. Soon the stew pots and bread baskets are empty and Sansa wishes that she could call for more food from the larder but, as she has stated, they are still on rations. The wildlings will needs eat only the same as everyone else in the castle is served.

The Greatjon speaks with both wildling women now: “Let them rest today for they’ve had a long journey; but tomorrow we will decide where they can best be directed. Some boys are old enough to train with the garrison, and apprentice with workers. The girls will learn to spin and sew and weave, and some may learn to work in the kitchen or with the chickens,” he explains. “You will need for them to have skills when you settle in the Gift come Spring.”

“Our girls fight as well, Lord Greatjon,” Willow tells him.

“Very well, if you can teach them then they will have leave to learn; but they will not train with the garrison. That is final. I will not have my men fighting women and girls.”

“Why not? We’ll go easy on’em: I promise,” Willow jests.

The Greatjon laughs heartily again.

…….

Rickon is quiet at supper in the Hall that night though the entire castle is subdued and as wary of the wildlings as they are of them. Uncle Hother gets up and joins the musicians and plays his horn along with the pipers and drummers which sets all the dogs to barking; but Sansa is relieved to see that some of the children smile.

After seeing her own daughter to bed and assuring herself that the wildlings are properly settled in their various chambers, she tiredly sits with her husband and young Eddard and Rickon in the solar.

Her youngest brother gives perfunctory answers when she asks about their brother Jon Snow and the rest of the men of the Nights Watch; and he is not forthcoming when she makes tentative inquiries about the war and even the queen’s dragons.

“You were so long with them after the battle, Rickon; I believe Mother worried that you might join the Watch-“

“I said I’d go back home,” he interrupts suddenly. “Jon made me leave anyway.”

“I- I’m sorry if that is not what you wanted, Rickon; but you are young as yet. You can still join the Watch someday if that is what you truly wish,” she tells him gently though she hopes that he will change his mind. As proud as she is of Jon Snow and his rise in the Watch, she could plainly see that his responsibilities weighed heavily on him.

“At least I’d have brothers there,” he mutters.

“Oh, Rickon, I am so very sorry that you lost Robb, but we all did too. And Bran will be with you at Winterfell-“ she begins to tell him, but he is shaking his head without looking at her.

“No. No he won’t be, not for long anyway. He wants me back so he can go to the Citadel. He wants to forge a chain. He says that he can never be a real lord who can protect the North and its people…and so it will needs fall to me,” he says with an unhappy resignation.

Sansa is dumbfounded. Rickon is so very young; and though there have been younger lords and even Wardens in name, she can see clearly that Rickon is neither prepared nor is he yet willing to take on their father’s responsibilities. She glances uneasily to her husband who has been listening silently but with concern.

“Rickon…” she begins haltingly, “I am certain that Mother and even Roslin can advise you until-“

“He says he’ll wait until I am of age,” he interrupts again. “Bran said he would wait…but then he’ll leave…just as you and Arya left…and Father…and Robb. I’ll Have Winterfell and I’ll be Lord Stark but…I’ll be alone,” he finishes.

Pain grips Sansa’s heart so tightly that she nearly gasps for breath, but before she can speak again her brother wipes his nose on his sleeve and stands abruptly.

“Good night, Sansa…and my lord,” he says awkwardly before leaving them.

“Good night, Rickon,” the Greatjon calls somberly before turning to Sansa.

Sansa bites down to still the trembling of her lower lip but she cannot stop the warm salty tear that slide down her smooth cheek. Her husband reaches for her hand now and holds it firmly in his own great rough grip.

“He’ll be alright, Sansa,” he murmurs gently. “He’s still young. He’ll have time to accept his duty.”

“But he will never have more brothers…or another father,” she laments hoarsely. “He feels that he is alone, that we have all left him alone.”

“Your father lost his father as well as his older brother and sister,” he reminds her. “Rickon is a Stark, like your father.”

“I wonder if Rickon knows that, or if he even remembers my father: my lord, he was so very young,” she says tearfully but wipes her cheeks hastily.

“I hate to see you cry, Sansa,” he tells her. “Come, let’s see Eddard to bed now. Come along, Eddard: we’ll be training with wildling boys tomorrow. I’m counting on you to spar with them and help me teach them.”

Sansa’s son brightens at his father’s words. “Yes Father: I’ll help you, I promise.”

“Good lad,” he pats his son’s head and ruffles his auburn curls, so like Robb’s and Rickon’s that Sansa wishes to embrace him fiercely so that he will never be harmed or ever feel alone. But she knows that she cannot always be with him or protect him. She sighs instead.

Once her maid has helped her to undress, Sansa dismisses her and rather wearily unbraids and brushes her own hair. She feels her husband’s eyes on her and then his hand on her shoulder and turns to look up at him. He in turn looks down upon her with concern.

“Do not let this weigh on your mind, Sansa. Your young brother has years to grow into his responsibilities. Your mother will guide him; and mayhaps her uncle the Blackfish can help to train and counsel him. He was a great advisor to Robb during the War of Five Kings and after; and all the Northern lords will be behind him. He is Eddard Stark’s son and, well, I know how much you care for the other one, Sansa; but the North needs a _whole_ young man to rule, especially now with the Targaryen queen and her council looking to hold sway over us. Mayhaps this will be best…for all of us here,” he tells her reluctantly.

“But Bran is so very clever, my lord-“ she assures him.

“That is not enough, Sansa, you know it is not; else the Imp would sit the Iron throne, not a girl with dragons,” he tells her firmly, and then relents somewhat. “They have never styled any Umber the _Cleverjon_ , Sansa,” he says self-depricatingly and with a wry smile.

Sansa takes his hand now. “No, but you are more than passing clever, my lord: more than you let other men realize,” she notes shrewdly.

He smiles again, only wider; and his deep eyes twinkle warmly. “As are you, Sansa; and I suspect you are clever enough to understand why it is advantageous to let others underestimate you.”

“I- I confess that I am not certain, my lord,” she tells him humbly, and drops her eyes in embarrassment. “Queen Cersei and King Joffrey…they thought I was a stupid girl.”

“Did they?” he scoffs. “And was it not your words that helped to condemn them? I’ll wager they underestimated you then, and spoke more freely than they should have before you,” he nods resolutely. “Look at me, Sansa. No man would ever question my strength or my ferocity so they believe their only chance is to outsmart me; and that is easier to counter if they think they needs not try very hard.”

Sansa smiles her understanding and looks up to him admiringly now.

“Your father was the same in his way,” he tells her now. “He never fought in tourneys, so men would not realize how skilled he was in battle. He kept quiet and listened before he spoke, and so men did not know how he thought until he had made up his mind…and he guarded his temper: a lesson I have never learned, I confess,” he chuckles now.

“You have never told me such things about my lord father before,” she ventures softly, and then she has a sudden inspiration. “I- I feel that these are the very things my brother Rickon needs hear of him, my lord. I wonder-“

But he simply closes his eyes and nods to her now. “Of course I’ll tell him, Sansa; only let me do it in good time so the boy does not feel that I am browbeating him. I’ll ask him to join the training tomorrow,” he tells her patiently, “and somehow find reason to speak of your father. Hm? He’ll needs learn in his own good time as well.”

Sansa squeezes his hand tightly. “I could not wish for a better man to teach him, my lord. I- Thank you,” she whispers now.

He smiles wryly again. “And now I must push thoughts of Lord Eddard Stark far from my mind, Sansa…else I will not be able to bed you as I wish to do,” he growls hungrily.

Sansa bites her lip and then stands up from her dressing table. The Greatjon stands with her.

“My father would wish for my happiness, my lord; and I could not wish for a better man to teach _me_ ,” she teases him.

For the third time that day, a woman’s jest make him howl with laughter.

…….

Sansa is breaking her fast with a tray in their chamber the next morning when she hears he husband whoop and holler from far off. Within moments, his booted footsteps can be heard running toward their door which he flings open so forcefully that it bangs and reverberates against the stone wall behind it.

“Finally!” he exults breathlessly and coughs so much he turns red in the face.

Sansa quickly throws back the furs of the bed where she rests and pads over to him in bare feet and her bedgown with her hair flowing loose about her shoulders. He shakes his head as she pats his back and looks concernedly at him.

“Fine,” he coughs, “I’m fine…just too excited. I- Come here, beautiful Sansa!”

He picks her up and spins her around in his arms. “Wooooo,” he throws his head back and howls his delight.

“My lord!” she cries now. “Please, my lord: what can have happened to please you so very much? Let me share your joy with you.”

He sets her down and waves a scroll that he has clutched in his massive fist.

“Smalljon,” he breathes in a rush, “has finally done it. He writes to ask my consent, Sansa. He intends to ask for the hand of a lady of House Mormont and…woooooo!” he exults again. “If the gods be good, she will accept and he will return to Last Hearth with a bride, a Northern bride!”

“Oh,” she replies, “oh, my lord, I am so very happy for you, and for Lord Jon and…and…but which lady does he mean to wed, my lord?” Sansa knows that Dacey Mormont wed shortly after she did; and that Alysane already has children despite being unwed, claiming that they were fathered by a bear: a claim often mocked by the men of House Umber. But Lady Maege Mormont has younger daughters as well.

“Hm? Oh, the youngest one…named for your father's sister,” he tells her now.

“Lyanna Mormont?” Sansa is surprised, thinking her very young; but then she remembers that she is of an age with Arya. “She would be near six-and-ten if she is not already,” she muses.

“Old enough to be wed, then,” he counters. “Older than you were, Sansa; but…is that not for the better?” he asks delicately.

“Indeed, my lord: she would be of an age to be wed,” she tells him encouragingly. “Will you send him word of your consent then? Please include my sincere wishes for their happiness, my lord: I think it a splendid match,” she affirms.

The Greatjon looks to the scroll now and remembers.

“Blast! I forgot to tell the maester to send a reply…I wanted to come and tell you, Sansa!’ He smiles so brightly at her and she is touched that he should have come straight to her with his happy news.

She nods to him with a knowing grin. “Well…then, my lord?”

He takes her face in his huge hands and impulsively plants a kiss on her forehead. “I’m off then,” he mutters as he turns and leaves their chamber as suddenly as he entered moments ago.

When he is gone, Sansa lets herself sigh with relief.

 _Thank the gods_ , she exults quietly and to herself. _Let him love her, and be happy; let him not look to me anymore…_

She takes a deep breath now and steadies herself.

_Let it all be over now, forever._


	55. Chapter 55

“Will you not go to Bear Island for the wedding?” Rickon asks them at dinner one night. “I’ve never seen the Bay of Ice,” he notes rather longingly. “Didn’t Brandon the Shipwright disappear on the Bay of Ice?”

“No, Rickon,” Sansa answers him, inwardly fearing that his tremendous responsibilities may spur him to run off and explore the world, “he was lost on the Sunset Sea; and so his son burned his great fleet in his grief.”

“Will we go to see to Smalljon wed, Father?” young Eddard asks as well.

The Greatjon sets down with his spoon before replying. “It will take too long to travel so far when it is still Winter, my boy; and your brother seems in a haste to claim his young bride,” he smiles now.

“Just like his father did,” Hother mutters into his stew with his mouth full, and the Greatjon glances sharply at him as Sansa feels herself blush.

“We’ll have a great feast for them when he returns; would you like that, Eddard?” His father replies.

“Can we have lemon cakes like at Winterfell, Mama?” Serena asks now.

Sansa shakes her head. “We have no lemons to make lemon cakes, my little bird; but I am certain that the cook will make something special for us.”

“Speaking of brides, we may have more company soon,” the Greatjon continues. “Apparently those Thenns have been busy making Queencrown habitable for their leader; their Magnar and Karstark’s girl will be travelling to live there…and they are like to stop here along the way.”

Sansa brightens at the news. “I should be so pleased to welcome them, my lord. Surely they will have word of Arya. I have only received one missive from her since she has been at Karhold, to tell me that she had arrived safely with Lord Harrion. Will you not stop at Karhold on your way to Winterfell to visit her, Rickon? She would be so pleased to see you; she is expecting her first child soon…and Nymeria is with her and so Grey Wind and Shaggydog can keep her company.”

Rickon toys absently with his knife, digging the point of the blade into the wooden tabletop. “I suppose I should,” he ventures. “I don’t know when I will pass this way again…but I would stay here a while longer if you will let me,” he asks hopefully looking back and forth between his sister and his host, though Sansa notices that he glances longer towards her husband.

“You are welcome to stay as long as you like, Lord Rickon. As I have said, my lady wife’s family is my family as well,” he states firmly.

“Thank you, my lord,” Rickon answers sincerely and Sansa thinks she notices his first flicker of a real smile.

Her youngest brother had joined the training in the yard the morning after he had arrived; and good to his word, the Greatjon had found reason to speak of his father to him as they sparred together. He later told Sansa that Rickon had been quiet at first to hear him speak of his father but had finally shown interest when he had mentioned how Lord Eddard had inherited the lordship when his own father and brother had died.

“Of course he was older than you are,” he had observed casually, “but he had been fostered in the Vale and so had a great deal to learn about the North and the castle again when he returned. He managed though: he was always dutiful, your lord father; but you are fortunate to have more time than he did, and to have your lady mother as well. Now, help me to teach these wildling boys to swing a real sword, will you? They’re wild to be sure but that is not always enough, is it? A man needs train himself properly: body and mind.” Despite her brother’s age, he had spoken to him as another man.

Sansa had been in the yard, and she had overheard that much of their exchange. But she noted that Rickon was easier with her husband after that, and had been talking and mostly listening to him for days. To give them time together, she has been busying herself with the wildling girls: she and Berena had assisted in getting them bathed and sorting out clothing for them. Sansa had even attempted to brush their hair, though not all had been willing. Berena counselled patience.

“They’re like to come around in time, milady; and if they don’t they’ll go back to the wildlings no worse than they came.”

Though Sansa agrees with Berena, she wonders if there is not more that she could do to tame what seem to her to be slovenly ways. Then she has an idea.

“Who would like a ribbon for her hair?” she asks the next time the girls are bathed. She has gathered some of her more worn ribbons, and has cut them to shorter lengths; but they are still pretty.

She can see them hesitate. Their eyes look longingly at the ribbons; but they are reluctant to accept any gift from a kneeler, as they styled them, unless it should be food. They are not ready to trust her yet. Sansa remembers how they had first laughed at themselves in dresses and proper smallclothes, but she had also noted that some had fiddled admiringly with the skirts and braided ties and the spare embroidery.

“We will needs plait your hair first, after we brush it, and then you may choose which ribbon you like best. Then you may keep them, and share amongst yourselves if you like.”

“ _I_ want one,” a scrawny, dark-haired girl steps forward with a face that is almost defiant. Sansa is reminded of Arya at the same age.

“You will speak respectfully to milady,” Berena chastises her, though gently, “and thank her for her generosity. She is gifting you her very own ribbons which by rights should go to the Lady Serena.”

The girl furrows her brow in anger but the wildling Willow speaks up.

“You heard ’er then, Ivy. What’s that ye say to Lady Greatjon?”

Berena wrinkles her forehead to hear her lady addressed so, but Sansa nods imperceptibly to her to indicate that she is not offended by the name. Secretly, she is charmed.

“Please. Thank you. Lady Greatjon,” she speaks each word with sullen difficulty. “Canihavablueone?” Ivy then blurts out all at once, with her eyes still fixed on the ribbons in Sansa’s hand.

“Yes, you may,” Sansa smiles at her. “You will look very pretty with a blue hair ribbon in your hair. If you will come and sit, I will brush and plait your hair myself.”

As she brushes and braids the wildling girl’s hair, the others come to watch. Berena starts on another girl and lets her choose a ribbon. Soon almost all the girls have accepted their braids and ribbon but Sansa spots the smallest girl crouching in a corner and, though she watches attentively, she does not come forward. She beckons her with her sweetest smile, but the girl does not move and very soon she drops her eyes and turns red from shame. Then Sansa sees the little puddle slowly spreading beneath her feet.

“Oh,” she remarks, embarrassed. “Berena, would you bring me a wet linen please?”

“I’ll tend ’er Lady Greatjon,” Myrtle says swiftly. “Come on, Gretel, let’s clean you up.” She leads the girl away as the others fall quiet.

“I- I am so very sorry,” Sansa tells Willow and the others. “I fear that I must have frightened her.”

“Ev’rythin’ frightens’er, Lady Greatjon,” Willow tells her now quietly.  “She’s not spoken since she were found. T’was another girl knew her name. She’ll come ’round…we hope.”

“Yes, hope,” she repeats numbly. “There is always hope.”

Had she not once hoped with all her heart? She had hoped that Joffrey would remember to treat her kindly, hoped that Robb would come to rescue her, and hoped that she could one day go home to her family. There had always been hope. But she had also hoped to stay in Winterfell, and not to wed a great big warrior who was older than her father. Then she had hoped that he would return to her from the Wall; but she had hoped that Robb would return too. There was always hope; but it was not always enough. Sometimes the best you could hope was that it would get better in time; or be over quickly.

“Well,” she clears her throat now, “I had best tend to my own little girl. She has lessons with our maester. You may run along to eat now; and then to your own lessons: the women will gather to spin and weave after midday.”

When she joins her husband to eat with their children, she feels somewhat melancholy.

“How fare the wildling boys, my lord?”

“Hm? Oh, well enough. They like fighting,” he laughs, “and two have taken to apprentice with the smith and some others will learn to tend animals. Though they may needs to learn some building before they return to their own people,” he thinks aloud to himself.

“That is good but, I meant: do you think they are happy…and feel safe?”

“They are safe here,” he tells her firmly. “If they do not know it then they will in time. Happy? Well, that is almost up to them now, would you not say so, Sansa? There is no happiness in being orphaned surely, but they are living better than some of our own commons. There is only so much you can do to make others happy, Sansa; they must do some of it themselves.”

“Yes.” _Yes. We can choose to be happy. We can choose who we will love, and why. I learned to do so. Pray Lord Jon has done the same…and that little Gretel can learn as well: gods be good to her._

 “Besides, they will be free to leave come the Spring,” he continues before scooping up more barley stew. “The lands in the Gift are very good for farming, though they needs be cleared and planted again; and the abandoned villages can be reclaimed and rebuilt. Your father had meant to see to it after Winter came but… Well, the Lord Commander and Lord Stark will see to it now. Strange though: it was meant to be re-settled to keep the wildlings from coming further south. Now it is to be their home.” He shakes his great bearded head at the thought. “Things don’t always turn out as we planned…but they can still turn out well enough, is that not so, Sansa?”

She smiles tenderly at him. “Yes, my lord: they can turn out _very_ well.”

…….

“Mama, wildlings don’t know how to play tea,” Serena tells her plaintively.

Sansa puts her sewing down now and turns her attention to her daughter.

“They laugh at me and say it’s only _pretend_ , not real tea and ladies but just dolls and empty cups…but that’s why it’s _play_ ,” she insists knowingly.

“I know, my little bird; but you must realize they have probably never seen a pretty little tea set like your own; or had dolls as fine as yours.” She wonders what types of dolls or toys the wildling children used for play. “Their lives have been quite hard; harder than our commons even, and all of these girls have lost their mother and father. Please be patient with them, Serena. I am certain they will be friends to you in time, especially if you are kind with them.”

Serena huffs but nods obediently.

“That’s my very good girl,” she croons and strokes her hair: a tawny brown like her father and his children by his first wife. It is thick and soft, like Sansa’s hair; but there is no trace of her own auburn at all. “You are your father’s daughter, Serena. He is so very proud of you; and you are growing up so fast. Soon I will finish sewing you a new dress and you will look so pretty for him.”

Serena giggles happily now and stretches up to her mother for a kiss. When she backs away from her in her chair, she dances around the solar with her chin raised and a gentle smile and Sansa is entranced: her daughter is beginning to behave like a little lady; and though she can still be willful and stubborn, she is also as bright and graceful as one of the children of the forest from her father’s or Old Nan’s stories. She has sought to temper her own stories of knights and fair maidens and romantic heroes in favour of such stories as her husband tells their children: tales of the North, and of the Night’s Watch and of the children of the forest. Great-uncle Hother is full of such stories and songs, and Sansa is pleased that he enjoys sharing them with her children. She reminds herself to ask if he will tell them to the wildling children as well, for they are of the North and seem likely to respect him for his great size and his gruffness and even his temper. She knows her own kindness is appreciated by most in the castle; but she knows that it is not respected…just as Bran’s cleverness is admired while his poor body is pitied. She wonders if it is possible to have respect without fear. Joffrey and Cersei thought not; and that is all Sansa needs know to doubt such beliefs.

Sansa leaves the solar to fetch her shawl from her chamber. She needs consult with the cook before their supper about rations to feed the Magnar of Thenn and his lady and people if they should stop at Last Hearth on their way North to the New Gift; then they will needs discuss plans for a welcome feast for Lord Jon and his bride, Lyanna Mormont.

As she passes through the hallway, she hears a sudden gasp and turns. She steps back to peer into a dark alcove and sees nothing at first, but then she spies a small soft shoe beneath a wooden bench. Sansa kneels carefully without approaching.

“Forgive me if I frightened you, Gretel; for I would surely never wish to do you harm,” she speaks softly to the girl though she cannot see her face. “I- You see, I know what it is to live with people who are not your family…because you have lost your family. The people that I lived with were not kind; they were cruel even. They…they killed my father, and I watched him die. I was too young to see anyone die, and so I was very frightened.” She pauses now to remember how she felt then, to understand why the girl beneath the bench is frightened too. “And then, I- I was frightened to come here too, to Last Hearth, to be wed: the Umbers are all so very big and loud and, well, I was only a girl then and did  not know them. But they are so kind, Gretel; despite seeming fierce. My lord would never harm a woman or a child…and he keeps us all safe. No one may harm us here. Please, Gretel,” she almost begs tearfully, “if there is aught that I may do so that you do not feel frightened anymore…please tell me…or show me. I cannot bear that you should feel this way, as…as I once felt.”

Overwhelmed, Sansa drops her face into her hands and lets herself sob briefly, but the she gathers herself and raises her head again to wipe her eyes. When she does, she is astonished to see the small girl kneeling before her and looking at her sadly.

“Oh,” she exclaims softly. I- I am glad that you came out, Gretel…shall we find the others now?”

Gretel reaches up tentatively to brush her fingers on Sansa’s cheek and feel her wet tears, and then looks at her small hand before looking up to Sansa again and shaking her head.

Sansa wipes her tears away resolutely and shakes her head as well. “Very well, Gretel. I promise that I shall not cry anymore. Would that please you?”

“Gretel,” someone calls, and they both turn. It is the defiant, dark-haired girl called Ivy. Sansa wonders how long she has been standing there. She is wearing her blue hair ribbon, as she does every day now.

“Go with Ivy now, Gretel. You are safe with her too,” Sansa prompts her with an encouraging smile.

The little girl stands and walks over to Ivy, who takes her hand. But before they walk away, Ivy looks back over her shoulder at Sansa.

“Thank you…Lady Greatjon,” she says without difficulty this time. She even sounds respectful. Then she leads the smaller girl back towards their chambers.


	56. Chapter 56

It has rained steadily for three days, a sure sign that Spring is approaching; though the air has remained sufficiently cold that the melting snow turns to ice overnight. It needs be broken with by men with pickaxes and shovels and cleared from the yard so that soldiers can train and servants can walk between buildings and horses can be led from the stables without the grooms slipping and breaking limbs or bashing their skulls on the ground when they fall. Already two men, one young and one old, wear splints.

The Greatjon heads out into the yard now as they hear the cries of guards and the opening of the gates and the whinnying of horses. Sansa remains in the doorway, as her lord has commanded: the rain is heavy and he wears a cloak over his furs so that he is not soaked through to his skin when he steps out to greet his son and new good-daughter.

“Are they here, Mama? Is Smalljon here…and Lady Lyanna too?” Serena asks as she bounces on her toes in excitement.

“Yes,” Sansa replies now, “I see your brother, and your father is helping his bride to dismount,” she tells her, though she can clearly see her husband fairly pull the girl off her horse with a shouted greeting before he turns and heads back to the castle now with the girl carried in his great arms. His son runs after them, and after an exchange of words he takes how young bride in his own arms and stalks towards the doorway with a laughing Greatjon behind them. Sansa steps forward as they cross the threshold.

“There’re here! There’re home!” her husband exults loudly and happily behind them. His son sets the girl down now and she turns to look around.

“Welcome home, Lord John,” Sansa says now, “and Lady Lyanna: welcome to your new home,” she smiles warmly.

The girl turns to look at her and smiles in return. She is tall, as tall as Sansa, and she remembers now that her eldest sister Dacey is tall as well. She has the same dark hair as Dacey, and appears to have the same lanky frame, though she is wrapped in a heavy, rain-soaked cloak and may well be as stout and bosomy as her mother or sister Alysane, though her face is long and thin. She has a gap between her front teeth, and looks younger than her years with tendrils of dark hair plastered to her pink cheeks and forehead. She giggles happily.

“And these are Lord Jon’s younger brother and sister: my children Eddard and Serena,” Sansa tells her.

“Welcome to Last Hearth, my lady,” young Eddard greets her and Serena smiles and curtseys gracefully.

“Lady Umber,” the Mormont girl greets her, then remembers to curtsey, albeit clumsily under the weight of her heavy cloak; and Lord Jon takes her arm to steady her, “and Lord Umber,” she says with more dignity. “I am so _very_ happy to be here at last, and I thank you all for your kind welcome.” She nods towards the children now.

“We have a great welcome planned for you! We will be feasting you tonight in the Great Hall! Come in and meet everyone: they are waiting to see you!” The Greatjon is smiling as broadly as Sansa has ever seen him do.

“My lord,” she ventures gently, “mayhaps the Lady Lyanna would like to rest, and change into dry garb?”

“Hm? Oh yes…of course: you must be shown to your chambers! Where are the servants?” he blusters now.

“They are fetching my lady’s things and will bring them to us, and I think that I can help her find our chambers, Father,” Lord Jon tells him as his bride smiles up at him with soft eyes.

 _She loves him, and is happy to be here,_ Sansa notes, and remembers her own fear and reluctance when she was a bride. _Thank goodness for that. I pray that they are both happy._

“My lady,” Smalljon offers his arm formally, and his bride takes it eagerly.

 _He has always hid his emotions_ , she thinks; and then it occurs to her that he had needed to hide his feelings for her. He turns to her suddenly now. “My lady, my lady wife has no maid with her: might I impose upon you to lend her yours until such time-“

Sansa nods and smiles: “Of course, Lord Jon. I shall send her to you to attend Lady Lyanna.”

“Thank you…Lady Umber,” Lyanna smiles again.

When they have left, Sansa turns to her husband who is now looking after them. He is still smiling but his brow is furrowed quizzically. 

“She seems a sweet girl, and happy…does she not, my lord?” Sansa prompts him.

He smiles fully again with his entire face and his eyes twinkle at her. “That she does, Sansa, that she does: House Umber will be full of sweet and happy and beautiful women and girls…like my Sansa and my Serena!” he enthuses once again and lifts their daughter when she leaps at him with her arms open. “Come now, it’s cold in this blasted doorway.”

…….

“That’s it then, Ivy, cross one hank of hair over another…carefully; now the other…very good.”

Sansa pauses near the doorway of the large chamber where the wildling girls sleep, listening to her maid teach the dark-haired wildling girl to plait hair for the others. She has showed the most interest in castle living, always asking questions and wanting to be taught how to do everything she saw. _Ivy Underfoot_ , Sansa thinks smilingly, for the girl reminds her more every day of Arya; though Ivy was also interested in fixing her hair and dressing properly, more so than her younger sister had been. She wonders if that had changed now that Arya has married and settled at Karhold; and her heart swells with pride and love and a fierce wish to see her again. Her husband has promised that they will visit in the Spring if not sooner, if they are invited.

“Let her get on her feet again, Sansa,” he had counseled her, “she’ll need time to recover from the birthing bed, and your mother is there now with her as well as your young brother Rickon.”

Sansa had nodded in agreement. She knows that the Greatjon had no love for the Lord of Karhold, Rickard Karstark, but that he will indulge her wish to see her sister, especially now that she has birthed twin boys, named for Lord Rickard and for Robb, their beloved older brother and late King in the North. Sansa had wept both in happiness and sadness when the scroll had arrived from Karhold at Last Hearth. Later she had gone to the godswood, to thank the gods for Arya’s children, and to pray desperately for more of her own.

 _Please,_ she had begged them, _let me give my lord more sons  for those he has lost._ But they have remained deaf to her pleadings.

Her maid is speaking again now: “That’s good, Ivy, now have her hold the end in her hand while you tie the ribbon.”

“Now show me how you do Lady Greatjon’s hair,” the girl fairly commands.

Her old maid laughs. “You will needs learn more than simple plaiting to do a proper lady’s hair, girl. There will be much to learn and more if it’s a lady’s maid you plan to be one day,” she admonishes her.

“I won’t be a lady’s maid…I’ll be a lady,” Ivy retorts.

This time Sansa’s maid does not laugh. “Ladies are born, not made,” the older woman berates her firmly. “Lady Umber was born a Stark of Winterfell, and her lady mother was a Tully of Riverrun. She was a princess of the North. Even the Umber line goes back to the First Men-“

“The Free Folk are from the First Men too,” the girl replies angrily.

“And what be _your_ family name then, girl? Was your father a lord and a warden, and your brother a king? No. You’re a wildling, and lower than commons here though you may live in the castle by the lord’s good graces and his lady’s…and don’t you be forgetting. Why I’ve never heard such nerve as yours. I-“

There is a resounding smash as something was thrown or knocked over and Sansa moves closer now to the open door.

“You will pick up the hairbrush and ribbons and straighten this table at once,” the older woman orders sternly. “You will count yourself fortunate that Lord Umber has forbidden anyone to raise a hand to you, girl…for you are in sore need of strong chastisement if you are ever to learn your manners and your place!”

“Thank you, please remain here,” Sansa speaks levelly to her maid and the woman curtseys to her. Sansa enters the chamber and looks at the girl who returns her stare with her old defiance. The other girls are clustered together in a corner, clearly watching and waiting to see Ivy upbraided severely.

“My maid was kind enough to teach you to braid hair, Ivy; and so you will thank her and apologize for your show of temper. Then you will straighten the mess you have made as she has told you.” Before the girl can object, Sansa adds a condition: “If you will not, then you will not be permitted to attend the feast in honour of my lord’s son and his bride this night. We cannot allow you to misbehave in the presence of my new good-daughter…who will one day be the Lady of Last Hearth.”

Ivy pouts briefly and then turns to the maid.

“Thank you. Sorry,” she mutters shortly before bending to pick up the hairbrush she has thrown and the ribbons she has knocked to the floor.

“Thank you, Ivy. You and the others may join the women in the spinning room now,” Sansa says softly without trace of triumph or disapproval; and the wildling girls file out quickly, though Ivy is clenching her small fists.

“Forgive me, milady but she is a wilful child,” the maid says to Sansa.

“She is,” Sansa replies, “and she is bright and spirited as well. You are right to correct her manners and her behaviour; and I thank you for taking the time to teach her only…I fear that berating her excessively may discourage her from wanting to learn. The others look to her for example so it would be best for all if she were to remain less sullen and contrary than when she arrived.”

“I understand, milady.”

“I require that you attend the Lady Lyanna. She has no maid as yet, and I have agreed that you should assist her when she has need. She will doubtless require to have a bath drawn for her after travelling in the rain. That will be all, thank you,” she tells her, and the woman curtseys again.

…….

The Great Hall is brightly illuminated with fires in hearths and numerous candles lit upon tables and twice as many torches as usual blazing along the walls. Sansa and Uncle Hother have permitted a suspension of rationing and the larder has been plundered for the feast. Bread baskets are piled high and there are several on each table, and there are biscuits and oatcakes as well. There are numerous platters of roasted onions, potatoes, leeks and carrots, pots of barley stew and capons, chickens and whole pigs are being turned on spits in the kitchens. Barrels of ale and wines have been brought up from the cellars; and dried fruits have been soaked and cooked into pies and puddings. In the corner, there are musicians with pipes and drums and fiddles, and Hother’s great horn waits for him to join the musicians. The wildlings stare open-mouthed at the hall and the abundance of food and the Greatjon rises to greet them and leads them to their table and bids them enjoy the feast.

The clamour when Smalljon enters with Lyanna on his arm is thunderous, in true Last Hearth fashion; and though she seems momentarily surprised, she is also quickly delighted and smiles and laughs and bobs a quick curtsey to acknowledge the hearty welcome. The Greatjon stands with a tankard of ale in hand.

“Friends, family and guests: let us first offer thanks to the old gods for bringing those of us here tonight safely through Winter and the war against the Others,” he intones gravely, and Sansa lowers her head and thinks of Robb and of her husband’s lost sons. “And now, let us all welcome a new member to our family: the Lady Lyanna of Bear Island and House Mormont who is now wife to my son and heir, good-daughter to myself and Lady Umber, good-sister to young Eddard and Serena, and one day to be your Lady of Last Hearth as my son will be Lord Umber! I invite you all to drink to their marriage, to their happiness, and join me in wishing them long life and many children! I give you Smalljon and his Lady Lyanna!”

A rousing cheer follows, and Sansa raises her goblet of Arbor Gold and sips daintily as the men drains their tankards of ale and her children gulp from cups of cold cider. Uncle Hother slams his tankard down as Lord Jon and his bride join them at table.

“’Bout time, Smalljon. We were all beginning to look to young Eddard here to carry on the family,” he half-jests in his hard and surly manner; but his great-nephew smiles his acknowledgement. “Well, you’ve brought home a bear to rival your father’s wolf,” he observes sourly.

Lyanna smiles shyly at Sansa. “I could never hope to rival Lady Umber,” she demurs with genuine modesty. “She is known throughout the North for her beauty and kindness; I hope that I may learn from her.” Sansa’s maid has gathered her hair at the crown and braided and wound it with green ribbon. She is dressed in a green gown with dark braided trim: the colours of House Mormont.

“Well said, good-daughter!” The Greatjon takes her hand and raises it to kiss impulsively. “Blast!” He slams his great fist into the table now. “Smalljon! I forgot your mother’s necklace: it belongs by rights to your bride! Forgive me, my lady: my son took so long to marry that I forgot,” he laughs hugely, but then slaps his son heartily on the back. “But you are well worth the wait, I can see that! Well done, boy: you’ve made me a happy man!”

Hother points to his lord. “Listen to him; he acts like he’s the bridegroom,” he grumbles, and Lyanna giggles.

“I’ve been a bridegroom for near seven years,” the Greatjon crows happily and reaches for Sansa’s hand now.

 Sansa ducks her head and blushes. “My lord, tonight is about Lord Jon and Lady Lyanna… You will lead the dancing after supper, I hope,” she asks them.

“We will,” Lyanna replies after glancing to her husband for his agreement.

“I can dance too,” Serena says expectantly.

Smalljon smiles at her. “Then you must join the dance, little sister. And you, Eddard: will you dance?”

The boy slumps in his seat. “Do I _have_ to?”

Sansa and the Greatjon exchange glances and smiles. “No, boy, you don’t have to dance; though it would be nice of you to take a turn with some of the young girls here…after all, you are the lord’s son and I am hosting this feast for your brother and his bride.”

He slumps even further into his chair. “Yes, Father,” he replies dispiritedly.

“We’ll all dance,” Sansa announces firmly. “And we should not forget to include the wildlings. Uncle Hother, the children do love to hear you play the horn; I hope so much that you will oblige them.”

“I hear you, girl…Lady Umber,” he corrects himself.

“You have been good to your word to welcome the wildlings into the castle,” Lord Jon observes.

“We train them with swords, Smalljon,” Eddard tells him now. “I have been helping Father.”

“Then I shall needs do my part as well,” Lord Jon replies, and he glances towards the table of wildling women and children. The Greatjon asks Lyanna about her family, including the She-Bear Maege, her mother; and she complies happily, smiling and giggling as he laughs at her stories. As she talks, Lord Jon’s eyes stray once again to the table of wildlings. Sansa notices, and when he sees her looking, he smiles faintly and puts his arm across the back of Lyanna’s chair, and he returns her gaze levelly until she looks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi and sorry this is not an very exciting chapter but it has been hard to work at my family's home with so many people around and so much to do. I'll keep working though...


	57. Chapter 57

All of the platters and plates are cleared, while all of the goblets and tankards are kept in hand. The servants and soldiers help to push the tables against the walls and leave the benches to run around the outside. As the musicians move forward, Sansa and the Greatjon settle side-by-side on one bench with their children; she reaches for his hand to hold and smiles excitedly at the prospect of dancing again. She has not danced since before she fell and lost her babe, and she pushes from her mind the memory that she had then loved her husband’s son and not him. She is happy now with her husband; and his son is married and has returned home with his young bride. The Greatjon smiles back at her with his warm and twinkling eyes, and he pats her hand with his free hand, leaving it there over hers.

The pipes and fiddles and drums begin their music, and Smalljon and his Lyanna begin their dance. They stand and join hands, and then turn away and step away before turning back to each other. Lyanna smiles radiantly; her husband is serious. He was never a good dancer, and so he needed think hard to remember the proper steps. After coming together and turning away and coming together again, others stand to join them in the dance.

Sansa rises when the Greatjon squeezes her hand, and she hurries to take their places in the figures of the reel. She curtseys as he bows and they stretch their hands out to each other before whirling together and stepping back towards their places again. They clap as Lord Jon and Lyanna hold hands and sashay down the center of the row and back again, and then come together to whirl again. Her husband is soon red in the face and coughing but he smiles and whoops as the drums beat louder and the pipers and fiddlers pick up their tempo. He stomps his foot along to the beat of the drums and Sansa feels his enthusiasm and her heart swells to see him so happy and acting the lord of the castle as everyone enjoys the celebrations. When they come together in the dance again, she hops up impulsively to kiss his cheek and he responds by grabbing her around the waist and spinning her around in his arms as he gives a crowing whoop with his head thrown back. The other dancers step back to let them spins and twirl together in the center of the floor, and those sitting on the benches cheer and applaud them. Eddard and Serena run up to clap along with the others and Lady Lyanna giggles happily and adds her voice to the encouragement; only Lord Jon remains unmoved, Sansa notices and so she winks to her husband and steps back to spin away from him and then takes a soldier by the arm to re-form the figure of the reel. The Greatjon takes the soldier’s partner by the hand and leads her in the renewed group dancing.

As they change partners in the dance, Sansa finds herself face-to-face with Lord Jon. She smiles bravely and opens her arms to him so that he may take her through the movements of the reel; but he holds her tightly and stares directly into her face as she averts her eyes.

“You can still command all of the admiration in the castle for your dancing, my lady,” he observes neutrally.

“I thank you, Lord Jon; and I hope that you and your wife are enjoying the celebrations,” she says formally, “your father is so very happy to see you settled-“

“-with a Northern girl from an old house to produce heirs for the Umber line, as he has always wished, my lady,” he finishes archly.

“Your father has always wished for your happiness…and I hope you believe that I wish you the same,” she intones quietly and sincerely.

He continues to stare levelly at her even as she turns away from him and back into his arms.

“I have done, and will do my duty to my family in marriage, my lady,” he says as she turns away, “as you have done,” he adds when she turns back to him.

She is left pondering his cryptic meaning as she steps away from him and to her next partner, and she smiles at the man, though he steps on her feet as soon as he draws her close.

The dancing continues and becomes ever more lively as people avail themselves of more wine and ale; and Sansa feels her face redden from the wine she is drinking and from the heat of the Great Hall and the many fires. She sees her children dancing: Serena dances daintily and gracefully with a red-haired garrison soldier, the former stable boy who had volunteered to fight beyond the Wall; and young Eddard takes his turn with many of the young girls, including some of the wildlings. Sansa smiles, and feels giddy and proud and happier than she has felt since returning to Last Hearth. She sees the Greatjon standing on the opposite side of the hall. He has been watching her, she can tell by his smile; and so she hurries over to him with her arms outstretched and he meets her halfway to take her in his arms and dance with her again.

“You are even more beautiful when you dance, Sansa,’ he says as he looks at her proudly and admiringly.

Sansa ducks her head and blushes. “Thank you, my lord. It is a wonderful feast, is it not?”

“It is…you are flush from wine, my Sansa,” he laughs softly as he holds her. She likes how she feels in his arms: warm and safe and happy; and she can feel the heat in her face and the brightness of her own joyous smile.

“I do not need wine to enjoy dancing with you, my lord,” she tells him as she looks up at him. “But I fear that I have had more than my fill of Arbor gold,” she almost giggles now. Then she feels a tug on her gown.

“Pardon, Lady Greatjon but I can’t find Gretel,” the wildling girl Ivy looks up at her.

“Blast, girl,” the Greatjon thunders, “she can’t go far with the watch keeping guard. Leave us to dance together.”

But Sansa sees Ivy’s concern, and she knows Gretel’s fears. “Please, my lord, I would help Ivy in her search: the child is fearful, and mayhaps all the noise and people in one place frightened her,” she implores him.

The Greatjon nods easily. “Very well, Sansa: far be it from me to curb your kindness. Go on, girl, but bring me back my lady!”

“I will Lord Greatjon. Come Lady Greatjon,” she pulls Sansa by the hand.

“Where do you mean to look first, Ivy?” she asks the girl as she fairly drags Sansa from the Great Hall.

“The same place as before first; then everywhere else,” the girl explains reasonably.

Sansa follows her to the alcove in the hallway on an upper floor of the castle. She looks around for a torch or lamp in the darkness of the hallway, but they are still rationing and so she finds none. Ivy runs ahead stealthily when she sees the glow of light from the alcove and then stops short suddenly. When Sansa catches up to her, she sees what Ivy sees.

Deep inside the alcove there is a lamp on the floor, and behind it against the wall is a couple locked together in passion: Lord Jon and Willow, the wildling woman. They can hear their grunting even over the distant sound of the music from the hall. He has her pressed against the wall and holds her legs open with his hands beneath her knees. _As he once did with me._ Sansa’s heart stops and she feels a strong urge to regurgitate and spill all the wine she drank at the feast; but before her Ivy steps forward and so she reaches to clamp her hand over the girl’s mouth. Ivy looks to her suddenly and Sansa shakes her head vigorously before drawing the girl back into the darkness of the corridor. When she pulls Ivy away, she kneels before her and puts her finger to her own lips to warn her to be quiet; then she takes her hand and lifts her skirts so that they can hurry away. Once they return to the ground floor outside the Great Hall, Sansa finally stops hurrying, but her heart is pounding and she still feels sick.

“Lady Greatjon,” Ivy pants, “why are you stopping? You need to tell the girl he married and brought here. I heard that girls from Bear Island can fight like men do,” she observes practically. “Does she have a dagger, or will she club him?”

“Ivy, I am not going to tell her what we have seen, and nor will you. I am here to ensure that she does _not_ find out what her husband is doing. She would be very hurt, Ivy; she is only just married and she cares for him.”

“But he’s fucking another-“

“Ivy, if you would speak with me you must not use such language,” she tells the girl but without conviction.

_Is that not what they were doing then; and he with me? How many others have there been? Did he ever truly love me, or was I a fool?_

“But a wildling woman-“ the girl begins stubbornly.

“Lady Lyanna is not a wildling woman, Ivy: she is a lady from an old house. It is her duty to be married and to have children and to run a castle for her lord one day. If she is not happy then she must suffer silently; but I will not be the one to make her unhappy….life may do that very well to her without our help,” he tells her bluntly.

“But doesn’t a lady have any power? I thought you were important,” the girl asks her now.

Sansa sighs as she kneels before her, and she reaches to push the small girl’s hair back from her face. “A high-born lady can be important, Ivy. Lady Lyanna’s own mother is the Lady of Bear Island, and her oldest sister will follow after her; but that is not often the case. Many of us must marry where we are told, by our fathers or our brothers or even a king-“ She swallows to remember her own disappointment at her betrothal, long ago when she did not understand the reason why; and to remember Cersei’s bitter words about being sold like a horse. “We are property, Ivy; we belong to our lord. Some are blessed by the old gods to be wed to a kind man, as I have been; but some men are not kind, or generous, or true to their ladies and their ladies become unhappy or even mean and cruel. I have known such women, and I should never want to be one-“ _But I was: I was unhappy and so I was untrue...and the gods punished me._ The wine has loosened her tongue, and she fears that she may weep. “-for I have seen how hurtful and dangerous they may be, and the harm that it causes. But our lives are not always easy, Ivy. We have many privileges, as you have seen; but we have many responsibilities as well. It is the same with lords: they must provide protection, and provisions and work and homes for his commons and all of his people. Ladies may set example by showing kindness and generosity and strength of a different kind. We are given much; and much is required of us. We are not free as the wildlings are to do as we please, not if we do our duty as we were born and raised to do.”

Ivy looks steadily at her and furrows her brow. “I don’t think that I want to be a lady anymore then,” she tells her frankly.

Sansa smiles even as she feels tears behind her eyes and leans forward to speak confidentially. “That’s quite alright, Ivy; I have sometimes wished not to have been born a lady either.”

Ivy leans forward as well and whispers eagerly: “You can leave with us in the Spring…and live with the Free Folk.”

Sansa feels her lips quiver even as she smiles gently. “Oh Ivy, you already know that you don’t need to be born a lady to be kind. You look out for the other girls and you take an interest in people and their work, and that is akin to duty. I think you will be a very good woman someday, for yourself and for your people.”

Ivy swallows hard and nods. “Thank you, Lady Greatjon.”

“There you are! You went searching for naught! She was here all along,” they hear the Greatjon behind them. When they turn to look at him, he is carrying a sleeping Gretel in his great arms. Sansa rises and looks at her carefully.

“She was sleeping? In the hall?”

“Aye, found her curled up under a table near the hearth,” he tells her in his deep voice. “Might be she was hiding but she looks peaceful enough, wouldn’t you say? Shall I carry her to her chamber, then?”

Sansa looks tenderly on him, her husband who is so good and kind with children; and again her heart aches that she cannot give him more, and all because…

 _Lyanna._ She remembers why she has hurried back to the Great Hall.

“I- well…”

“One of the wildling women then?” He begins to turn back to the hall.

“No…my lord, but mayhaps Ivy will go with you. Ivy, go with my lord and show him Gretel’s bed; take off her shoes and cover her with her blanket. Can you do that for me?”

The girl nods again and leaves with Lord Umber and Gretel. Sansa turns to enter the Great Hall and is immediately met with Lyanna.

“Lady Umber,” she exclaims happily, “I am so pleased to see you. Forgive me but I have not learned my way around the castle as yet,” she drops her voice confidentially, “pray is there a privy nearby? I should hate to have to climb upstairs and try to find our chamber in the dark alone,” she finishes sheepishly. “Smalljon is not in the hall.”

Sansa smiles. She is relieved to have a reason to lead the girl away from where she may happen upon her already-wayward husband and so takes her by the hand.

“I confess that I am in need myself; I have had far too much wine. Come with me…and promise to no longer address me as Lady Umber. I would have you call me Sansa…if it please you: we are not so distant in age, and I cannot tell you how very happy I am to have another lady at Last Hearth. Since my lord’s elder daughters have left, I have been quite bereft of company.”

Lyanna clutches at her hand and her eyes shine with happiness. “Oh…thank you…Sansa. You will call me Lyanna, won’t you? I have hoped so much that we should be friends: I want to be a good wife to Smalljon and, well, Mormont women are not known for their feminine pursuits,” she blushes self-depricatingly. "I truly would like to learn from your example. You and Lord Umber seem so happy together; and I want so much for us to be happy.”

Sansa forces herself to keep her smile from wavering. “I also want you to be happy, Lyanna. Come now,” she prompts and leads her away from the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great thanks and credit to MissMallora who wanted to have Sansa and the Greatjon dancing together. It was a wonderful idea.


	58. Chapter 58

Sansa sees the man first. She had been admiring the tall, old tree and the dark silhouette its still-leafless branches against the background of the white sky as they rode slowly along the muddy path that is the Kings Road in early Spring. It stands out majestic and alone in the middle of a field of pale scrub grass and patches of snow, and she had been thinking that she had never travelled so far North before she thought she saw a body hanging from a branch. Her heart stops momentarily and then she realizes that she is not wrong.

“My lord,” she calls to her husband. “My lord!”

“Hm? What is it, Sansa?” he asks as he turns in his saddle but when he glances to where she is looking he sees it too. “Blast,” he swears suddenly. “You men come with me. Sansa wait here.”

As they gallop off across the field, their horses’ hooves kick up turf and snow. A man brings his mount up next to Sansa’s and peers off after them.

“Is dead man?” he asks haltingly.

“Yes, Lord Magnar; the man is dead,” she tells the young leader of the Thenns.

“I go,” he announces shortly and follows after the others. After a pause, Sansa turns her heels to her mare’s flanks and canters to join the group. They have stopped short of the large tree and are holding fast to their reins as their horses prance skittishly so close to the dead body. The Greatjon circles around it before dismounting his courser. He glances up as she approaches.

“You don’t need to see this, Sansa: go back to the road.”

“If it please you, my lord, we are still on Umber lands and so this man is under your protection,” she notes, “and if he was hanged, it was without your authority.”

His mouth turns up on one side in a sad, rueful smile. “So he was, Sansa; but he has hanged himself. There has been no crime against him or my right to pass judgement as lord.” He kicks his foot against something hard on the ground. “A ladder,” he observes, “and he is hanged with a strips of braided cloth and is hands are unbound, and there are no other footprints or hoof prints. He climbed up the ladder and knocked it over, I’ll wager…poor wretch,” he says sadly and shakes his head. “The crows have been at him too.”

The man’s face is dark, and what is left of his tongue hangs out. His eyes are gone as is some of the flesh of his cheeks. Sansa fells sick suddenly, as she remembers Joffrey forcing her to look at the heads of her father and of Septa Mordane mounted on the walls of the Red Keep.

“Did- did you know him, my lord?”

He looks around towards the nearby forest and grunts an affirmation. “I have met most of the commons hereabouts; but I can’t tell the man by what’s left of his face. Cut him down,” he orders his own men. “We’re approaching the last village on the King’s Road before the New Gift: we’ll ask about him when we stop for the night.”

“Yes, m’lord,” the red-haired young man from the garrison replies firmly; he dismounts and goes about his business with a grim face. He and other soldiers wrap the man’s face in a length of burlap and sling his corpse over a horse tied to the back of a wagon.

They have been many days on the road riding North with the Thenns who are travelling from Karhold to Queen’s Crown with their leader to settle in the New Gift now that Winter is ending. The Magnar of Thenn, named Sigorn, and his wife Lady Alys stopped at Last Hearth on their journey. The Greatjon welcomed them and spared fodder for their horses and for the livestock that some Karhold men and the Thenns were driving North with them. Sansa had been surprised to see that Lady Alys rode with them despite her pregnancy, and invited her to stay with them until her child was born. The girl smiled gratefully but refused her offer.

“You are very kind, Lady Umber; but the Thenn women work and ride when with child and so then must I,” she tells her. “It is not so difficult as we have been led to believe; and my lord Magnar has insisted that we bring a midwife with us for the journey.  I would like to birth our child in our own home,” she blushes but with a shy pride; and Sansa is happy for her even as she feels a pang of jealousy and a sense of loss that she cannot become pregnant.

Nevertheless, the Magnar accepted their invitation to stay for several days to give his young wife time to rest; and Sansa was happy to have news of Arya and her twin nephews.  She and Alys and Lyanna spent as much time together and Sansa was delighted to have so much female company after so many years alone. They even joined Serena and some wildling girls for their tea, and Sansa was encouraged to see little Gretel sit with them even if she did not join in and still had yet to speak any words to anyone.

When the Thenns were set to leave, the Greatjon surprised Sansa by announcing that they would ride part of the way North with them.

“It’s time I got out and travelled my lands again after the long Winter; and my lady has never accompanied me. I hope you will not mind, Sansa?”

“I should be pleased and honoured to accompany you, my lord,” she had replied, “but what of the children?” She had never left her children before.

“They will stay at Last Hearth. Berena is here, and will mind them; as will Smalljon and Lyanna and Uncle Hother.”

“As you say, my lord,” she replied gently. And so they set off, Sansa riding her grey mare and wearing sealskin boots and a new fur cloak gifted to her by the Magnar for their hospitality. The Greatjon has gifted him with arms and a number of the castle’s best sheep from their flocks to drive North with the Thenns and breed for stock.

Once they arrive at the village, the innkeeper rushes out to meet his lord and the Greatjon draws him aside to ask about the dead man. After conferring quietly, he comes to join Sansa who has been watching and waiting by the door. He does not speak until they are sitting along the benches with those who are already eating and drinking.

 “A huntsman. I knew him. His son died in the Whispering Wood; his wife died this Winter, the innkeeper says. He felt he had naught left but to toil and die alone and so he hastened his end himself,” he tells her gravely. “He says they will bury him when the ground thaws more.”

“That is sad, my lord, but…difficult to feel that you have lost all, and that you are alone in the world,” she says softly. She remembers how she thought to throw herself from her window in the Red Keep after they killed her father; and then how she had run to the godswood in Winterfell to offer to die in his stead when he was missing.

“We’re not alone: that’s for certain,” he tells her archly as the noise inside the inn grows louder. “I wish the man had come to me; we might have used him at the castle, and he could have found another wife,” he muses lightly.

Sansa raises her eyes to him. “Mayhaps he felt that he would not be happy with another, my lord; some attachments are very deep and heartfelt.”

He gazes steadily at her through the dinand activity in the room, and he begins to smile warmly. “That is true, Sansa: I’m a fool to think someone loved could be so easily replaced,” he murmurs in his deep voice as he reaches to cover her slender hand with his.

The morning dawns cool and damp, with scattered clouds blowing overhead and the steady sound of the drip-drip of melting ice from the roof and windowsills of the inn and then late form tree branches. After riding for several hours they stop and her husband confers with the young Magnar before turning to her.

“Here is where we must say our goodbyes, Sansa. We have reached the boundary of the New Gift, and the Thenns will ride North without us…but I hope that you know that you shall always be welcome at Last Hearth,” he intones.

The Magnar Sigorn nods and Lady Alys smiles at them. “We invite Lord and Lady Umber to visit our home…in Summer when you travel more easily,” the young man tells them formally. “I swear me we make you greatly welcome.”

“We would be honoured,” the Greatjon replies firmly.

“…and delighted,” Sansa adds. “Alys, I wish you every happiness in your new home and with your new family,” she says to the girl who, like Arya, looks so very Northern with her dark hair and long face. “I shall pray the old gods to watch over you all.”

As the Thenns begin to move forward up the Kings Road, Sansa expects that they will turn back: she and the Greatjon and an older, grey-bearded soldier of the garrison and the red-haired boy. But instead they turn off the Kings Road and ride for several more hours before the Greatjon stops again and looks around carefully.

“This is it,” he tells the soldiers and points now between two large evergreens. “Follow me this way; you too, Sansa. We’ve a ways to go but we will arrive before dark.”

Sansa is confused. “But…I thought we returned to Last Hearth, my lord-“

“We will, Sansa; after this one more night.” He turns to smile at her now. “Indulge me, Sansa: I have not been this way for some years now.”

She smiles back dutifully. “Of course, my lord,” she replies though she is tired of travelling and wishes to return to their children, but she trusts him implicitly and so gathers the strength to continue. The remaining snows are deeper off the road and the travelling is slower, but the smell of the tall evergreens is sharper than on the Kings Road and the birdsong is clearer and sweeter and the young soldier notes fresh tracks heading into the forest.

“Rabbits, my lord: might I ask your leave-“

“Off you go, then,” he tells the young man. “Good hunting,” he adds heartily. They ride in silence for some time before he re-joins them with bloodied hares hanging from his saddle. The forest becomes denser and the sky grows overcast and greyer when they come to a clearing near the base of a hill. There is a stone cottage built into the base of the slope so that the roof is grown over with grass, and a stone and timber outbuilding nearer to the treeline next to a well. The Greatjon reins his courser and dismounts with a smile.

“Here we are; and the place looks no worse for wear,” he steps to Sansa to help her down from her mare now. “See to the horses,” he tells the soldiers as he nods to the outbuilding which Sansa realizes is a stable. Her husband looks expectantly at her.

“What is this place, my lord? You know it well,” she observes.

“It’s our hunting lodge…more of a cottage really, but the Umbers have hunted here for hundreds of years.” He takes her hand and walks to the door of the stone cottage and pushes and then puts his shoulder to the door. The hinges creak loudly in protest but door flies open and he steps back. “Come,” he enthuses.

The inside is dark and smells of damp and so the Greatjon fumbles for a flint and lights a candle inside a rusted lamp hanging inside the door. The faint candlelight shows a large stone hearth along a side wall, a neat woodpile and some rudimentary furnishings: a table and stools and a scarred chest with worn leather straps but no lock. Iron pots sit along the edge of the hearth and there is a bucket inside the door. The windows are shuttered tight so that no light comes in.

“We’ll sleep in out bedrolls by the hearth, Sansa; just like we have in our chambers at the castle,” he reassures her. “The men will bed down in the stable. It’s only for the night,” he continues when she does not reply, “I know it is not comfortable for a lady but I wished for you to see it, Sansa.”

Something in his voice makes her turn to him curiously. “Did you, my lord?” she prompts gently.

“My father brought my brothers and I here to hunt, with Mors and his sons when they were boys,” he begins, “and I brought my older sons and will bring Eddard soon.”  He looks around fondly and smiles at her again. “I confess I have been happier here at times than anywhere else in the known world, Sansa: no duties, no audiences with commons and no battles with enemies…just quiet, simple living off the land,” he trails off.

“Your duties are many, my lord; it is right that you should enjoy some respite, particularly as Lord Jon is of an age and ability now to act in your stead.”

“And he has a lady to act in your stead: do you mind, Sansa?”

“Not at all; in fact I quite enjoy her company…and mayhaps if, by your leave, I allowed her to have some more of my duties then I would have more time for study?’

“As you wish, my Sansa; I see no reason she should not train to ready herself for her role as Smalljon trains to ready himself for his. They will be Lord and Lady Umber one day…oh, but we have years, my Sansa,” he enthuses again when he sees her smile waver, and she knows that he is not aware of his son’s infidelity towards his new wife and so she smiles again for him.

Now the soldiers come and in bring the bedrolls and packs and Sansa rifles through them for their supply of bread and dried fruit. The red-haired young man drops his rabbits and the Greatjon helps to skin them for the spit to be cooked over the hearth fire. The older soldier helps Sansa to draw water from the well and they drink the cold water in turns from a ladle and pass around skins of wine and ale. There are tin plates on a shelf and musty liene towels in the chest and so they sit on their rolled-up furs to eat and talk.

“How did you learn to hunt?” Sansa asks the young soldier. She knows that he was a stable boy before volunteering to join the garrison.

“A-at the Wall, m’lady. There weren’t enough t’eat for all them soldiers and wildlin’s…so we set off huntin’ for all we could find.” He pauses uncomfortably. “That dead man, he reminded me o’ th’Others a mite: they was eaten away too, but wit’ dark hands and icy white faces an’ fierce blue eyes.”

They all fall quiet now; each with their unhappy thoughts of the horrors and losses of the war beyond the Wall.

“You were very brave to go,” Sansa tells him, “and I was so very pleased to see you when you came to Winterfell to escort me home, and to know that you had returned safe.”

“He came with Tormund to search for me beyond the Wall. Did you know that, Sansa?” her husband asks now.

“I did not, my lord. Then I am forever in your debt-“

“I- I wanted to be a soldier, m’lady; and Lord Umber, he let me an’ trained me…I’m in your debt, and forever grateful to House Umber.”

Sansa smiles at the lad and then the older soldier stands and says: “We best check on House Umber’s horses now, then sleep so’s to leave early tomorrow. G’night, m’lord…and m’lady.”

When they are left alone together, the Greatjon sighs and looks at her.

“Are you certain that you don’t mind staying, Sansa? I feel that I’ve sprung this on you without warning; but you’ve been so brave and strong on the ride North, I thought this would be no real hardship to you.”

“I do not mind, my lord,” she assures him and then looks around the small cottage at the timbered ceiling and the stone walls and the hearth giving warmth and the fire casting long dancing shadows across the room. “I believe I understand why you find this place peaceful: it is quiet, and there is little to distract.”

He chuckles. “There is little to do, you mean, in the way of diversion. There is work to do though: chopping wood and drawing water and hunting and foraging for food. I don’t fool myself we live as commons here for we come with provisions and sometimes soldiers and huntsmen…but I would come alone at times, just to be alone,” he notes pensively. “I imagine that must seem indulgent: I’m a lord, with a lord’s duties. I should not be running away…”

He looks to her now and smiles again. “I never thought I would want to run away here with a lady…my own lady wife,” he mocks himself, “but I wanted it to be just us, Sansa.”

She takes his hand now and smiles tenderly. “That is very romantic, my lord.”

“Do I surprise you then, Sansa?”

“A little, my lord…” she confesses.

He leans to take her face in his big warm hands now and gazes on her. “Let me look at you now, Sansa; for I never tire of it,” he murmurs and he strokes her hair back from her brow with the backs of his fingers and then traces the curve of her cheek with a fingertip as she gazes lovingly back into his eyes. “Gods…when you look at me that way, I almost feel…” he stops now.

“How do you feel? Tell me,” she whispers.

“I feel…I feel that you truly do care for me, Sansa.”

She tilts her head and gently places a soft and slender hand over his own hand on her cheek.

“I love you with all my heart, for you are everything brave and strong and kind and gentle,” she almost croons to him. “You have the greatest heart, my lord: it is the greatest part of you…and should be the true reason you are styled _Greatjon.”_

His brow furrows slightly though he also smiles. “Do you know, Sansa, that in all these years you have never called me that?”

She leans her forehead to his and whispers softly: “Will you kiss me now…my Greatjon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that I cannot post more often but my father is very sick. I can only promise now that I will not abandon the story and I will finish this story in time. Thanks you everyone who has been reading and hanging in.


	59. Chapter 59

The bed is cold. Sansa shivers once and sits up, and spies her clothing folded on a small chair and her dress and cloak hanging from pegs behind the door. She rises and dresses quickly and opens the door to descent to the common room at the inn where she finds her husband listening to the innkeeper and his wife tell him about the Winter and who has survived and who has not. The Greatjon nods gravely but brightens when he sees Sansa sit at a table near the hearth and moves to join her. The innkeeper’s wife brings them a platter of boiled eggs and bread and a jug of cold water.

“It always be a great honour to have th’lord at th’inn, milady; but to have Lord Eddard’s own daughter and th’ king’s own sister be right special,” she gushes respectfully.

‘You are very kind but…we have a queen now,” Sansa reminds her gently. “I am sister to Lord Brandon Stark, Warden of the North.”

“Aye, beggin’ your pardons, m’lady,” she offers humbly. “We all canna but remember our King in th’North.”

“There is nothing to pardon, good woman; my lady only fears for your safety if you should be overheard,” the Greatjon tells her in a hushed voice. “The Spider is back in the service of the Iron Throne…and we would not want talk to reach him, would we?”

The woman gasps and twists her face in distaste. “No, you be right, m’lord. Thank ye, m’lord.” She smiles endearingly at Sansa now. “Your lady’d be a right beauty, m’lord; ‘tis no wonder ye be so happy,” she tells him warmly, and Sansa blushes so that she feels her cheeks grow hot.

“I told you they would hear us, my lord,” she whispers to the Greatjon after the woman walks away. They had bathed and drank warm ale after reaching the inn in a hard rain the night before and had felt so much better afterward that they had enjoyed each other in their clean bed despite the creaking of the bedframe and the thin wooden walls of the near-empty inn. Sansa had tried to stifle her own cries of pleasure but her husband had seemed unconcerned with discretion and made no attempt to muffle the sounds of his own enjoyment. His brown eyes twinkle merrily now at her embarrassment.

“And? Should a lord deny himself the pleasures of his own lady, Sansa? Do you think they disrespect me for having enjoyed you? Why, they’d think me a fool if I didn’t!” he nearly crows and she blushes harder still, though she reaches to put her hand over his on the table. He raises her hand to kiss it and chuckles softly. “We’ll be home before day’s end, Sansa; and can enjoy the privacy of our own chambers and our own warm bed.”

“…and see the children,” she adds happily. “I have enjoyed travelling with you and meeting the people that you know so well, my lord; but I confess that I have felt an empty place in my heart for the children. I miss them terribly, as I am certain do you.”

“It will be good to be home again, Sansa,” is all he says and all he needs say. “Let’s finish up eating; the soldiers have already eaten and are seeing about the horses. The sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll reach Last Hearth,” he smiles and squeezes her hand again.

The sun shines faintly through the many clouds overhead but they are fluffy and white rather than the dull grey clouds of the previous day and so they hope to ride without rain. Still, Sansa keeps the fur-lined cloak of her hood up and rides behind her husband and the older soldier while the younger red-haired soldier keeps pace beside her. After some time, the older soldier drops back and the Greatjon turns and so Sansa spurs her mare to catch up to ride alongside him.

“My lord, do you truly believe that Lord Varys has his spies in the North? That poor innkeeper’s wife, I believe you quite frightened her,” she asks now.

His expression grows stern. “I believe that Spider and the Lannister Imp will do anything to tighten their grubby grasps on power in King’s Landing: they, and too familiar with it once, and have been too long without it to relinquish it again. If the young dragon queen should finally take a husband from among the nobles of the South, well doubtless his family will want to take their place by her side and in her Small Council. The Imp and the eunuch needs make themselves indispensable to our queen if they are not to be cast aside: the best way to do that is by bringing her reports of disloyalty and even treason, and they will look for it everywhere but most certainly in the North which so recently had its independence, Sansa.”

“Are- are we in danger, my lord, at Last Hearth or at Winterfell?” she asks cautiously.

“Your brother swore his fealty as a Stark, Sansa: you know as well as I that is a pledge of unquestionable honour, and my loyalty is to House Stark. Still…I declared your brother King in the North, and I wed his sister so they may suspect that I might seek to do it again. Those Southron dolts don’t understand us, Sansa: they never have. They see conspiracy in our bonds of family, threat in our strength and defiance in our frankness and our honesty.” He turns his head to her now. “The North rose against both House Targaryen and then House Lannister once…and it matters little to them that they gave us cause: they will not wait around idly for us to do it again.”

Sansa thinks quietly on what he has said as they ride along in the forest approaching the castle when all at once his spirits lift and he turns to the soldiers.

“Almost there: shall we all break for it? HA!” he kicks his mount and they all follow and take off through the wooded path a gallop. “Woooooo!” The Greatjon exults as the walls come into view and Sansa laughs at his delight and enthusiasm.

“LAST HEAAAAAAAAARTH!” the soldiers cry behind them and Sansa and her lord join in: “LAST HEAAAAARTH!”

…….

“Mama-Mama-Mama-Mama,” Serena cries as she runs to Sansa as soon as she is helped down from her mare. The great wooden gates of the castle groan shut behind them and servants and soldiers mill about the yard.

“Serena,” Sansa embraces her daughter tightly. “You have no cloak; and where are your gloves?”

“Wanna to see you, Mama!”

“Well, now, what about your Da, Serena?” the Greatjon asks her; and, with a happy shriek, his daughter launches herself at his open arms and he lifts her into a furry bear-hug. “Oof, my girl is getting bigger all the time,” he teases and swings her from his arms as she giggles.

“My lord, she must go inside before she takes a chill. Come Serena,” Sansa tells her.

“Go with you mother while I help see to the horses and packs, girl. Go on,” he prompts and then turns when he sees young Eddard running to them from across the yard. “Eddard! Come greet your mother, boy. Where is Smalljon?”

“Hello Mother,” he greets Sansa as she bends to kiss his cheek and smooth down his hair. “Lady Lyanna went to the kitchens earlier; Smalljon,” he pauses awkwardly, “is in the stable.”

“Well, come find him with me and we’ll see to the horses together,” his father tells him.

Eddard squirms and averts his eyes. “Can…can I go with Mother, please?”

The Greatjon looks disappointed but agrees nevertheless. “Of course you can go with your mother, Eddard. Hurry now before your sister catches chill.” Serena has wrapped herself inside the bottom of Sansa’s cloak but is beginning to shiver. “I’ll catch up with you inside,” he tells Sansa who nods and smiles for him.

As they walk towards the entrance to the castle, Sansa looks down at her son who stares straight ahead.

“Is there something amiss, Eddard? Why do you not want to go with your father?”

“I don’t want to go in the stables, Mother: Smalljon…” he ducks his head and furrows his brow in distress and stops talking.

“Serena,” Sansa tells her daughter once they are inside, “run to the hearth and get warm again. I needs speak to your brother.” When the girl runs off, she kneels before her son and puts her hands gently on his shoulders so that he is facing her. “Look at me, Eddard. What troubles you? Tell me the truth now,” she instructs him.

He looks at her with big brown eyes full of sadness. “Mother, Smalljon is in the stables with…with a wildling woman and they…they do things: things you’re supposed to do when you’re married,” he tells her in a hushed voice. “Don’t tell Lady Lyanna, please Mother,” he adds fervently.

Sansa bites her lip and cups her son’s cheek softly with her gloved hand. “You know this would hurt her feelings very much, don’t you?” she questions him and he nods with his eyes cast down now. “You’re a good boy,” she kisses his forehead. “I won’t tell, I promise. Run along and we will gather in the solar before supper and tell you all about the trip to the New Gift.”

Reassured, Eddard runs into the hall. Sansa stands with a sigh and glances out into the yard towards the stables but cannot see either her husband or his eldest son. She takes the stairs to her chamber where her maid is waiting for her.

“Will you be wanting a bath milady?” she asks Sansa.

“I thank you, but I had a bath only last night at the inn,” she blushes smilingly to remember. “Mayhaps simply a basin of hot water to wash? And then I should like to brush to hair and change my dress for the hall for supper.”

 “Very well, milady.”

After she has washed and changed, Sansa goes looking for her family. When she reaches the solar, only Hother sits alone with a large tankard of ale, looking forlorn.

“They went to the maester’s…to look over accounts, I expect,” he tells her disinterestedly.

“I thank you,” Sansa replies, and she once again feels guilty for the death of his brother and companion. _He is old and unhappy and now he is all alone_ , she thinks sadly. _Oh, why did Mors think that my death and the end of the wildlings would end all of his unhappiness or his wrath? When has revenge or war ever brought anything but sadness and loss, even in the North?_

As she approaches the accounting room of the maester’s chambers, she overhears her husband and Lord Jon speaking heatedly. She stops and thinks to leave them but their words reach her ears and she is transfixed.

“…been so careless, boy? A wildling woman…and you newly wed: what if the Mormonts or even the wildlings should take offense? What if you got a bastard on her? Gods be good Smalljon, we don’t need bad blood so soon when we are just learning to get along with the wildlings after so many years of war with them.“

“I’m not careless,” Lord Jon snaps impatiently. “No one knows-“

“ _Eddard_ knew! Your own brother wouldn’t come into the stables to look for you. If a young boy knows then surely anyone else could…anyone who might tell your lady wife!”

“Well, what of it? I am not the first or last man to stray from his wife, and I am certainly not the first _Umber_ to do so,” his son challenges him.

A long and heavy pause follows. “So that’s it, is it? Well… I probably deserve that; but I don’t know that Lady Lyanna deserves it.”

“Did my mother deserve it?” Smalljon counters.

“Blast it, boy,” the Greatjon thunders and then relents. “No, she didn’t deserve it; but my father made me wed her and so I did, for duty…but that was all. That is why I never asked that of you-“

“You didn’t expect me to marry a Northern lady from an old house? That is all you expected of me, it seems,” his son answers bitterly.

“Is it, then? I didn’t teach you to fight? I didn’t sit you beside me in the Great Hall when I received noble lords and ladies and our commons? I didn’t sit in on your lessons with the master as you studied to be lord own day? I taught you hunting and fishing and riding. I gave you your first sword, boy; and your first ale and took you to the village for your first woman. I saw that you were raised a man and an Umber…and I’ve been proud of you, Smalljon,” he tells him sincerely. “But I never commanded you to marry. I didn’t want that for you. I didn’t want it because I hadn’t wanted it: it wasn’t good for me, and it wasn’t good for your mother. I guess it wasn’t any good for you either. You and your brothers and sisters were our only happiness together. What was done can’t be undone…but tell me why something you think is so damned wrong is something you would turn around and do _yourself_?” he demands. “Why did you marry that girl if you didn’t want her?”

“I had to marry someone, some lady…what matter which one when I didn’t get the one I wanted?”

Sansa’s heart stops dead. _No. Oh, no. Do not let him say it. Do not let him know. He can’t know._

She hears the Greatjon’s treading across the wooden floor now. “Smalljon,” he sighs, “I know we hoped our King would betroth you to his own sister, but blast it, boy, you also know why that could not happen. You know what they were saying about her, how she must have been ruined; gods be good, you were one of the king’s guards and they were the worst to talk. House Umber is a proud, old house and we could not risk it. Did you want the whole North to think the Umber heir was a bastard fathered by that Joffrey or Renly or some Southron knight or soldier? It might have caused challenges to the legitimacy of your heir and family in-fighting for inheritance of the lordship for generations after. It could have ruined House Umber in time!”

“But it wasn’t true,” he tells his father. “Not a word of it was true. It was Greyjoy-“

“Aye, _we_ know that now…but we could not have known it then; and others _still_ believe it to be true. Well, what matter now, boy: the King in the North is no more,” he tells his son sadly. “But he bid me do this favour for him, for the sake of his sister’s honour…and I did. I did my duty and again married where I was told, though I once swore to myself that I would never marry again. But this time I was lucky: gods be good, I could not believe my luck and I still cannot believe it at times. I never expected a second chance at happiness in marriage, and at my age. I never thought I would love the girl… and I certainly never thought that she would come to care for me.”

Sansa shudders and puts her fingertips to her lips to stop from drawing in a deep breath, so moved is she by her husband’s words.

 “You love her…your wife,” Lord Jon says now. It is not a question.

“I do.”

A thoughtful pause follows before Lord Jon speaks again. “Then, I am…happy for you, Father.”

“I want the same for you, Smalljon,” the Greatjon tells his son, “I want you to have the kind of happiness that I have found with Sansa, and not what I had with your mother: don’t do that to yourself or to your young wife. I know you think I have no right to say so; but I promise that you will be happy if you love and are loved. Not a lot of men are lucky enough to have that; and you may not get a second chance as I did.”

There is the screeching sound of a chair scraping along the floorboards and an audible sigh; Sansa does not know from which man. But it is her husband who speaks again now:

“I will leave you to think on that. And I will advise you not to consort with that wildling woman…or any of the others. If you must look elsewhere than to your wife then do so outside the castle walls. I like Lyanna, Smalljon, and so does Sansa. We would not want to see her hurt. I hope that you do not either.”

Sansa hears the slap of a hand on leather and she knows instinctively that the Greatjon has given his son a hearty and heartfelt pat on the shoulder or back: his usual means of showing his sons his deep affection. Realizing that he may come out into the hallway, she reaches down to swiftly remove her shoes and raise her skirts and then pads quickly and silently away.


	60. Chapter 60

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, I haven't had time to revise this chapter. I welcome any corrections or critique. Thanks always for reading.

Her children are sitting in the solar when she returns: Eddard sits near Uncle Hother by the hearth fire where her husband and Lord Jon will doubtless join them when they come down from the maester’s rooms. Beneath a shuttered window, Serena sits perched on a footstool before Lyanna, smiling and listening to her tales of Bear Island.

“Oh, Sansa, I am so pleased that you have returned,” Lyanna tells her as she looks up.

“As I am pleased to be home,” Sansa smiles in return. “Did you get warm again, Serena?’ she asks her daughter now as she gently places a soft hand against the girl’s forehead. “I would not want my little bird to take sick.”

Her daughter sighs in mock exasperation as her mother’s attention and then giggles. “Da!” she then exclaims as her father enters the solar.

“Serena! Come sit with Da: you can drink ale and tell me how you have missed me!” The Greatjon picks her up easily and turns her upside down.

“No,” she shrieks laughingly from beneath a tangle of braided hair and dangling lithe limbs and layers of clothing. “No ale! No upsy-down!”

“My lord…her dress,” Sansa murmurs reproachfully. Serena’s skirts have fallen to reveal her smallclothes and wool stocking.

“Down you go then, little lady,” he sets her upright on her feet and Serena smooths her hair and skirts as her father admires her girlish ways. “And a proper pretty lady you are now, just like your mother,” he boasts.

“Mother doesn’t climb trees in the godswood and throw rocks,” Eddard grumps.

“Serena, did you throw a rock at your brother?”

“Yes,” she tells her father, “but he threw first and missed!”

“Ah, so you hit him? Good!” her father exults when she nods. “You can fight up on the walls if we are attacked! Mind now Eddard if you throw rocks at your sister, she will throw them back…so you best _duck_ , boy.”

Sansa and Lyanna laugh to watch the rest of the family together as both their husbands sit near the hearth with ales and Serena and Eddard come to stand by their father to talk and listen to him.

“I hope they did not trouble you too much while we were riding North with the Thenns,” Sansa tells her good-daughter now.

“Oh, no: they were wonderful, Sansa! I know that Smalljon loves his little brother and sister, especially now…” she looks sad, “now they are the only siblings he has at Last Hearth. And I do love having so much family as well, I-“ she stops and blinks and wrings her hands together. “Sansa, I know that you have been studying to be a midwife with Berena and I thought…that is…”

Sansa leans forward now. “What is it you would like to ask, Lyanna: do you wish to study as well?”

The girl gives a slight laugh and blushes before lifting her eyes to Sansa’s again, and when Sansa sees the happiness in Lyanna’s eyes, she immediately understands her interest in midwifery. She reaches over to put her hand over the girls and squeezes it gently.

“Oh, Lyanna….”

…….

“Why do you smile like that, Sansa?” her husband asks as she sits at her dressing table while her maid brushes her hair for her. “You look as though you have a secret. Where did you and Lyanna disappear to after supper in the hall?”

Sansa nods to her maid now. “I thank you. Good night.”

“G’night then, m’lady,” the older woman groans as she picks up Sansa’s clothing and puts it over her arm before she leaves their chamber.

Sansa stands and walks over to the bed where the Greatjon sits as he takes off his boots. He tosses one carelessly aside, and then removes the other and does the same. He has already removed his furs and sits now his heavy woolen shirt and breeches and knit socks. His big toe sticks out the end of one sock.

“Oh dear,” Sansa notices, “I must needs darn that one.”

“Hm? Oh…darn them both!” he pulls his socks off impatiently and throws them aside as he did his boots and then holds his hand out to her. “Come sit with me,” he commands.

Sansa smiles and sits beside him, taking his hand in hers as she does. The Greatjon turns to her and looks her over appraisingly before lifting his free hand to brush her hair aside and over her shoulder before resting his palm on her cheek.

“More beautiful all the time,” he murmurs gently. “I like to see you smile, but tell me, Sansa: are you truly happy?”

She looks back at him and sighs sadly. “I am very happy, my lord; but sad that I must not show it sufficiently for you to have faith in me. Please tell me what I must do so that you should not doubt me?”

“Sansa…” He gazes at her lovingly and raises her hand to kiss now. “It is not you that I doubt; it is myself,” he tells her as he squeezes her hand tightly. “I- You know that I was married once before; but you do not know that I was not a very good husband- No, let me continue,” he insists when he sees that she would speak. “I married at my father’s command, to a girl I did not care for…I treated her indifferently, and was not true to her. She in turn became bitter towards me, and a scold; and so we were not happy.” He looks at her now to see what effect his confession is having on her, and Sansa drops her eyes penitently.

“You are right to think less of me-“ he begins sadly.

“No,” she interrupts. _How could I think less of you when I have done far worse?_ “No, my lord: I- I know. I know about-“ she tells him haltingly.

“Ah,” he remarks as he understands her meaning. “Berena, was it? Though I imagine anyone who lived here then could have told you tales: I did not trouble myself to hide my…behaviour,” he admits morosely. “I married for duty, that is all; but other than fathering sons and daughters, I was not very dutiful. And now my son…” he trails off unhappily.

“What troubles you, my lord? Why do you tell me this now?” Sansa questions him gently.

“It would seem that my son and heir learned from my example,” he says bitterly. “I found him with another woman…in the stables. That is why Eddard would not follow me to find him: he knew, poor boy. Gods, do not let him do the same as well,” he frets now.

“I know this as well, my lord, for Eddard told me. He knows what his brother was doing was hurtful to his lady wife, and so he bid me keep his confidence.”

The Greatjon shakes his great head. “I don’t want this for them. I never made my sons marry, nor my daughters if they did not wish to though it is their duty as it was mine. Smalljon knows how I treated his mother…why would he then do the same to Lyanna? I thought he had married for love…love: listen to me,” he mocks himself now, “We both know well that is not why nobles marry; but I thought that having chosen her himself he at least cared for her. She’s a good girl; I like her. You like her too, don’t you, Sansa?”

“I like her very much, my lord: she is spirited and pretty and I wish her happiness but…mayhaps, in time, Lord Jon will see her worth, and appreciate her.” _As I, in time, came to love you,_ she thinks. “Not all men care to be loved, nor all women, my lord.”

He looks at her oddly. “Now why would you say that? Everyone wants to be loved, Sansa.”

Her heart fills at his words, and she squeezes his hand tighter and leans in to gaze at him lovingly. “Do you truly believe so, my lord? I said those very words once to…to Queen Cersei and she called me a fool. She said that love is poison, a sweet poison…but that it would kill me all the same,” she drops her eyes as she repeats the words that have haunted her these last years: since she loved his son, lost her child and failed to conceive time and again. _Barren: that is the death I must suffer from the fever that poisoned my womb._

“She _would_ think such a thing,” he says with a sneer in his voice. “If any woman was poison to love, it was Cersei Lannister: incest, murder, treason…She chose her path and she paid for it Well, I guess I chose mine and paid for it as well; but I was hoping to spare my sons the same.”

“How…how have you paid for it, my lord? “ Sansa ventures timidly.

“Hm? I hurt a good woman; I may not have loved her but she did not deserve to be so disregarded. And I set a bad example to my children, my eldest son especially, it seems: they may have thought love and marriage are poison too. Well, things will be different for our children, Sansa: they will see what it is to be happy, and to be loved,” he finishes encouragingly and then he turns to her again. “I fretted for you when I agreed to marry you, Sansa: I wasn’t certain that I could be a good husband but…I have tried. I have tried to be good to you so that you would be happy, and that you would come to love me,” he tells her with open humility.

Sansa is touched that such a proud man would make such sincere confession to her. She looks up to him and speaks from her heart: “You have been good to me; and I do love you very much…my great Jon,” she whispers closely.

He arches his brows at her and glances down to his breeches. “Would you care to see how great, Sansa?”

She gives a gasping little laugh of surprise. “I know well how _great_ you are: you let me know at the inn near the Kings Road…and everyone else there as well,” she teases.

“I would be happy to remind you again, my Sansa,” he offers, “and to show you how wrong Cersei was to tell you love would kill you: love makes you even more beautiful,” he tells her as he takes her face in his hands caressingly, “and it makes me feel even more alive,” he cannot help jesting.

Sansa laughs softly again. She loves that he makes her laugh, even as he makes her feel wanted.

“Did I not promise you that we could make all the noise we want in the privacy or our chambers?” he jests again.

 _I’ll have a song from you,_ she hears in her mind: a distant memory made suddenly vivid. “Do…do you mean to have a song from me?” she whispers huskily.

“You do make the sweetest music when we…” he murmurs, and then his warm brown eyes twinkle merrily. “That would seem better than having you scream by turning you upside down,” he counters and plucks at her bedgown. “Have you girl’s stockings and smallclothes under there?”

“You should know _very_ well what I have under my bedgown…my lord,” she says languidly as she rises to stand slowly. “Mayhaps you need reminding as well?’ With those words, Sansa draws on the braided cord that holds the neck of her bedgown closed and lets it open to slide off her shoulders and over the curves of her tall body before it pools at her feet.

As her husband’s eyes look her over lustfully, she turns and walks slowly to her side of their great bed and sets one knee down on it and then the other and crawls and stretches across the thick furs until she is lying on her side with her rich auburn hair flowing loose around her head.

The Greatjon turns to admire her, and lifts his great long legs onto the bed and huffs and slides and moves closer until he is lying on his side facing her, propped up on one elbow. He gazes down the length of her and his free hand follows with his fingertips just grazing the skin of her neck and shoulders and her arm to where her hand rests on her hip. There he trails around to her bottom to make soft swirls before trailing back up her back. Sansa lifts her hand to put a fingertip to his lips and he kisses it sweetly before she brushes her hand over his beard and around into the thick hair at the back of his head and leans in to kiss him.

As he kisses her back he draws her closer and slips a big hand between her thighs and strokes her skin lightly. Sansa breathes heavier into his mouth as his fingers reach her swollen folds and feel the wetness that has gathered there.

“Yes,” she whispers, breaking their kiss for only an instant.

With a grunt of want, he rolls onto her slowly and puts her on her back. She feels the deep soft furs beneath her and the light softness of his worn wool shirt and the scratchy rough wool of his breeches against her skin. Sansa reaches her hands beneath his shirt and lifts it to pull over his head. He struggles and mutters oaths until he can settle on her again and rains kisses on her face and neck. She strokes her hands up his back, feeling the smoothness of his skin and the hardness of his body: honed strong and solid by decades of training. She thinks fleetingly that he is as solid as a great pillar, and nearly giggles at the thought when she feels his hard member press against her thigh through is breeches. He is not a pillar: the marble pillars in the Red Keep were cold and still while he husband was warm and alive and full of hot breath and coursing blood and vigorous strength. _And love._ Sansa draws her hands down his back and slips them into his breeches over his firm rounded behind.

“Oof,” he breathes out a great gust of air and raises himself off her with one hand so as to fumble at his lacings with the other. Sansa begins to help him and then they both begin to sputter and laugh when their fingers tangle together with the laces. When he is finally freed, he settles on her again and gazes at her tenderly.

“Gods but you make me happy, Sansa.”

She smiles softly for him and runs a caressing hand on the side of his breaded face. ‘Kiss me again,” she nearly pleads.

The Greatjon kisses her mouth, her fluttering eyelids and even the tip of her nose which makes her laugh. He buries his face in her hair behind her ear when he angles himself to thrust into her slowly. Sansa tilts her hips up to take him in with a sharp gasp and then a long sigh of pleasure. He is so strong and hard that she feels herself stretch around him as he fills her, and she raises her knees and shifts her bottom to take in more of him. She arches her back, pressing her breasts into the matt of hair on his chest, and so he runs a warm hand up from her hip to one of her breasts and squeezes gently before rubbing his thumb over her nipple. His warm caress and his movement inside her make her heart drum and her body feel languid and flushed. She closes her eyes and leans her head back, surrendering herself to him and to her own pleasure as he rocks and churns over her, sliding in and out slowly until his breathing becomes heavier and finally hitches. He stops caressing her to gather her in his great arms and begins moving quickly, thrusting in short hard strokes that make her clutch at his back and shoulder and wraps her long legs around his middle. She bucks her hips in time with his rhythm and begins to gasp and keen.

“That’s it…that’s it, my Sansa. Peak with me now, I’m so close… _Gods!_ ” he cries through clenched teeth as his entire body tenses and he drives himself as deeply as he can inside her and holds himself there as she shudders and arches further and cries out sharply.

Then he is running his hands through her hair and murmuring to her soothingly. “It’s good, isn’t it, Sansa? You like it when we lie together.”

“Yes,” she whispers back to him and opens her eyes, “I have for some time, please know that; and now…more and more.”

He laughs softly, indulgently. “I knew it would only take time; and now we have time, Sansa.”

Later when they are together under the furs of their great bed, Sansa curls up to his side as he lies on his back, and drapes one arms across his massive chest and one leg slipped between his. He holds her closely in his arms.

“You see: love doesn’t make us weak or foolish or poison us. It makes us happy and want others to be happy; and so it makes us better people. Someday I hope my son learns that too…” he murmurs in his deep voice.

Sansa presses herself closer to him still, but she lowers her eyes before speaking.

“I- I never told you why I was smiling when you asked, my love: you may take heart: Berena and I have confirmed that Lyanna is with child-“

“Lyanna pregnant?” He stirs and look down at her head nestled in the crook of his arm and shoulder.  “Gods be good: this could be the next heir,” he enthuses, “another Lord Umber in the making.”

“She will tell Lord Jon tonight and mayhaps…mayhaps that will be enough to make _him_ happy,” she tells him. _Please gods, let him be happy: he deserves that much, as does she._

“I hope so, Sansa, for both their sakes,” he replies. “Smalljon a father,” he wonders aloud, “I can only hope that I have set a better example to him as a father.”

“You have,” Sansa replies unhesitatingly, and looks up to him now. “You are a wonderful father to our children, and I have seen how much your eldest son respects and admires you,” she manages to say though her heart is heavy with her knowledge of their betrayal of the man she now loves. “He will be a good father, and he will have you to guide him still for many years.”


	61. Chapter 61

“Milady.”

Berena smiles a wearyily forced smile as she hands Sansa a clean linen, but the fondness and pride in her eyes is genuine.

“You did well, milady,” she continues, “as did Lady Lyanna.”

Sansa blushes slightly and ducks her head as she wipes her cleaned hands dry. “Thank you, Berena. Surely you must know that I could not have done it without you…and the maester,” she adds respectfully.

“You have proven yourself passing able, my lady,” the maester replies somewhat condescendingly. “Will you inform the Lord Jon or…”

“If I might accompany you to the solar, Maester; I should also like to see my lord’s reaction to the happy news.”

“Indeed, he stands to be very well pleased, my lady,” he replies as he steps back to allow her to pass. But once they reach the solar, Sansa steps aside to let the maester speak first.  The Greatjon catches her eyes immediately though, and knows the news before anyone tells him.

“Lady Lyanna is delivered of a son, Lord Jon,” the maester tells Smalljon who then lets out a withheld breath and nods and smiles satisfactorily. The Greatjon howls with delight and slaps his son and heir on the back with a hearty whack.

“Well done, boy! Another Lord Umber to follow us both, thank the old gods!”

“Yes, thank the gods; and thank you, Maester, for attending my lady,” Smalljon addresses the older man.

“It was Lady Umber brought your son from his mother,” Lord Jon, “with my guidance and that of the midwife, of course. Her studies have not been for naught, you will be pleased to hear…I’m sure, my lords.”

Lord Jon steps towards Sansa and bows his head. “Then I thank you sincerely, my lady. If you will all excuse me,” he smiles, “I should like to meet my son.”

It is the Greatjon’s turn to step towards Sansa now. “I am proud of you, Sansa. I know that Lyanna wanted you with her when her time came, especially since the She-Bear could not be here,” he pats her shoulder gently and recalls Lady Mormont’s recent fall from her horse. “Though gods be good, I’m surprised she didn’t try to crawl here,” he adds jestingly.

“The raven’s scroll did say that she would spend nigh on two moons with her leg and shoulder in splints, my lord: I suspect even crawling is out of the question, even for such a formidable lady. Once Lord Jon has seen Lyanna, shall we remind him to send a raven to Bear Island?”

Her husband sniffs and thinks. “No, I’ll send it by my own hand,” he decides, “I’m still Lord Umber, though there be two in line behind me now,” he laughs with pride and delight. “Maester, prepare a raven for Bear Island, if you would.”

“Very well, my lord,” the maester bows and leaves the solar.

The Greatjon turns back to Sansa and smiles contentedly.

“I am so very happy for you, my lord,” she tells him, “and for House Umber.”

“I’m always happy with you, Sansa: today I am happier,” he replies and embraces her warmly.

Sansa clings to him and shuts her eyes tightly. _I helped to bring his son into the world, and my lord’s grandson and heir: please, may the gods forgive me now._  But she smiles again for her husband when he lets her go and turns to follow the maester.

“What will they name him, Father?” Eddard asks now, and his father turns back to look at him.

“Your brother will decide, Eddard. I’m sure he will tell us soon.”

“He’s the heir…so he’s important,” Eddard says now and tries to smile for his father.

Sansa understands his meaning and turns to her husband for reassurance but he has already stepped back into the solar.

“All Umbers are important, Eddard: no lord can rule on his own without family. Does not Smalljon help me to train you? Did not all your brothers teach and help you? We are a noble House of the North, all of us together. I will need you to help your nephew as Smalljon helped you: you will be his most important bannerman one day and so he will needs count on you as I have counted on my uncles and brothers. Can you do that for us?” he asks firmly.

“Yes, Father,” Eddard nods. “I won’t disappoint you.”

The Greatjon looks down proudly on him now. “I know you won’t, Eddard, because you never have. Gods, but your mother and I are proud of you.”

 Sansa‘s heart swells to see her son smile shyly and lift his head.

“Thank you, Father…Mother. I promise to make you proud.”

“Good lad. Come help me write this scroll, will you: you will know better words from all the poems your mother reads to you,” he motions for Eddard to follow. With his hand on his son’s auburn head, the Greatjon pauses a moment to wink at Sansa. Then Sansa watches them leave together, and moves to the hearth to sit down in her husband’s chair and stares wistfully into the fire.

…….

Serena runs to her just as she steps out of the castle into the weak sunlight of the castle yard. It had rained in the early hours of the morning, and the Spring air was still damp.

“Look, Mama!” Serena exclaims as she holds forth a straggly bouquet of wildflowers. “From the godswood, Mama!”

Sansa smiles down at her, her little bird who has grown so lovely despite the mud on her boots and skirts. Behind her little Gretel wears a crown of flowers in her pale hair.

“Did you make a flower crown for Gretel, Serena?” she asks.

Serena nods. “Yes, Mama. She likes the flowers, and the godswood… _I think_ ,” she whispers as she leans closer.

Sansa smiles at the little wildling girl now, who has still yet to speak in all the time that she has been at Last Hearth: “You look very pretty, Gretel,” she tells her.

Gretel ducks her head but blinks and smiles. She has been Serena’s playmate and shadow since the wildlings returned to the Gift once the Spring thaw had set in early the previous year. As the women and boys and girls had climbed into the horse-drawn wagons, Sansa had helped Ivy and Myrtle to search for Gretel. They had found her hiding under a table in the maester’s library.

“Come out, Gretel,” Ivy had said. “We needs go back North.”

But Gretel only shook her head and covered her tightly closed eyes with her small hands.

Sansa understood. What Gretel had seen in the far North beyond the Wall had frightened her, and she did not want to return.

“Lord Umber decreed that any wildlings who would stay with us at Last Hearth were welcome to do so,” she reminds the others gently. “Is that what you want, Gretel?”

Without taking her hands from her face, the little girl nods vigorously.

“Very well then,” Sansa soothes her. “You will remain here with us.”

“But she’s a _wildling_ , Lady Greatjon,” Ivy had protested.

Sansa closes her eyes and for a moment she sees the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, Joffrey’s cruel smile and hears the crowd screaming for her father’s head. “Sometimes…some places are too painful to revisit, Ivy,” she tells her hoarsely. “We will keep Gretel safe here with us, I promise you.”

Now whenever wagon-loads of goods travelled to the Gift from castles in the North to help supply the wildlings, Sansa always included word of Gretel for Ivy and even once sent a strip of cloth that Gretel had woven from spun wool to use for a hair ribbon.

“Serena, it is almost the hour for your lessons,” she tells her daughter now. “Run ahead to the maester and I will send Eddard. Gretel, you may join the women in the spinning room. They tell me that you work very hard and do good work,” she praises her. The eldest woman had in fact told Sansa that the girl seemed to have singular patience for spinning and weaving for a child and had a gift for working colours.

“Yes, Mama. Come on, Gretel!” Her daughter runs into the keep with her friend hurrying after.

Sansa walks in the direction of the armoury now, and she can hear the clank of clashing swords before she can see her husband and son practice-sparring.

“Good!” the Greatjon enthuses loudly. “Thrust! Again! Now parry…parry, Eddard,” he tells his son as Eddard wields his sword against his father. The boy needs take two steps for every one of his father’s and hold his sword high to block his father’s cuts. Even from where she has stopped to stand and watch, Sansa can see that her husband needs not use his full strength against his son.

“Hold your sword higher, Eddard,” Lord Jon advises his young brother as he watches. He holds his own son in his arms and the babe watches curiously. _A true Umber,_ Sansa thinks; and she knows that he will have his own wooden sword soon after he is able to walk.

Eddard furrows his brow in concentration but retorts to his brother’s advice: “I would needs stand in the back of a wagon to reach father’s sword properly…Ugh!” Eddard thrusts his blade powerfully but the Greatjon blocks and turns it away easily. Nevertheless, Sansa sees that her husband is winded.

“Forgive me, my lords,” Sansa calls gently, “but it is time for Eddard’s lessons with the maester.”

“Alright, boy, that’s enough for one day. Don’t slouch like that, boy: you’re improving all the time. You’ll needs grow much bigger before you can best your old man of a father,” the Greatjon laughs and coughs. “Put your sword back in the armoury and get to your lessons. You heard your mother.” He tousles his son’s head affectionately and shoves him headlong towards waiting master-at-arms. He nods to his older son now. “We’ll talk later,” he murmurs and pats his grandson’s head. “Your turn is coming, Little Jon: you’ll train with your father and me and your uncle Eddard!”

Little Jon looks up at his grandfather and waves his chubby arms. “ _A-hee_ ,” he finally gushes.

“My lady,” Lord Jon bows his head to Sansa even as he jostles his son in his arms. “How fares my lady?”

“Lyanna is resting now, Lord Jon. Berena and I will see to her later,” she tells him. “She tires as her time draws nearer but she is well.”

He nods and slips away with his son when the Greatjon steps up to Sansa with a great warm smile.

“My lord,” she greets him finally, “Eddard mayhaps cannot best you as yet, but he is growing so much bigger.” At nearly nine years, their son is as big and tall as other boys who are already ten-and-two.

“He’s an Umber,” her husband states simply and firmly, “and he is growing: he is nigh at the age most boys are warded.”

Sansa looks and fixes her stare on her son who speaks with the master-at-arms. _My sweet boy._ But Sansa knows her duty. “As you say, my lord,” she replies softly without looking away.

But the Greatjon comes to stand before her with his brow furrowed and shakes his head at her. “Don’t do that, Sansa. Don’t shut me out. Talk to me. This is our son-“

“Our only son,” she says without thinking.

“Yes, Sansa: he is our only son,” She feels him take her fingers in his hand which is cold from the crisp Northern Spring air. “Tell me your thoughts on the matter. The Dragon queen is strongly encouraging the exchange of wards throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and more children from noble houses are being brought to court. It may be that we will have no choice in the matter if we do not act soon on our own. Well, I’m a Northern lord, and so I’ll make my own decisions about my son, _our_ son.”

Sansa looks up to him now, and swallows her pain. “My- my father was warded to the Eyrie-“ she begins.

“I know that, Sansa,” he tells her gently.

“But Robb was kept home at Winterfell. I expect it was because we had Theon, or mayhaps because my mother feared my father would become more attached to Jon without Robb.” An idea forms in her head as she speaks. “Mayhaps…mayhaps, my lord, if we should invite boys to be warded at Last Hearth then that would satisfy the queen. Booth you and Lord Jon are renowned warriors, known throughout Westeros: no lord would deny that their son would learn well what it is to be a man, and…”

The Greatjon smiles and puts both his hands on her shoulders and leans closer to her. “We are of a mind, Sansa. I mean to bring it up with Smalljon this night, to discuss which houses to approach…but you know the South and Southroners better than we do,” he reminds her quietly.

Sansa pauses slightly, and then nods resolutely. “I shall be pleased to advise you, my lord.”

He smiles again and offers his arm to her, and Sansa takes it gratefully. “We’ll have a word with the gods about it then? Serena says there are wildflowers in bloom.”

As they walk Sansa asks about his knowledge of Kings Landing. “How have you heard about the wards at court, my lord?”

“Hm? Oh, the last train of wagons to the Gift from House Manderly brought me a scroll from old Wyman when they stopped here,” he tells her and looks around carefully. “His master was born a Lannister, and so he does not send to me by raven. He fears Maester Theomore spies on him and all of us for the Imp and the Spider. Lord Too-fat knows how Umbers and Starks would balk at sending their offspring South, and so how it could make it more likely that we should be commanded to do so; and so he warned me.”

Sansa shudders to think of sending her children to court in Kings Landing. “And- and what of Serena, my lord-“ she begins.

“My daughter goes nowhere without her mother; and my lady goes nowhere without her lord. If they want my daughter, they will have us both, and the little wilding chit besides. Smalljon and Lyanna can mind Last Hearth for us; I will go and protect my women. Let them try and stop me,” he fumes. He stops before the heart tree and turns to Sansa. “No harm will ever come to you or our children: not as long as I am alive, Sansa.”

She sees his resolution and places a gentle hand on the side of his bearded face. _His hair has gone white,_ she notices suddenly, _when did that happen?_ But she knows that it must have been gradually, over time. She smiles tenderly. “I am grateful for your assurances, my love,” she murmurs and he leans to kiss her forehead.

“Besides,” he adds,” I don’t want the queen thinking to wed my daughter to the Imp,” he scoffs.

“Lord Tyrion?” Sansa exclaims. “But why-“

“He is the last male of his line. He is trying to bring back Cersei’s children to the Rock by promising they will never marry...though who he thinks would marry bastards of incest is a mystery of his own twisted little mind. But unless the dwarf weds and fathers heirs, Casterly Rock will pass to some distant Lannister blood from another house; or the queen could even bestow the castle on another.”

“Tommen and Myrcella were exiled by King…by Lord Renly,” she remembers. “He charged Sandor Clegane to be their sworn shield.”

The Greatjon snorts. “She is not like to welcome a Clegane back to the Seven Kingdoms; not unless he takes the Black. That is another line that will be extinguished.”

“Oh,” is all Sansa replies.

The Greatjon tilts his head at her. “The Hound helped you, didn’t he? I recall that you spoke for him, Sansa.”

“He- he liked to have saved my life the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, my lord,” she tells him. “The- the Lannisters wanted me dead.”

The Greatjon nods. “I remember: you told me this. Well, if he should return, that is enough for me to offer him a place in service here…if you agree, Sansa. Though he may spit on an offer from the man who killed his brother,” he adds.

“I- I think not, my lord. The Mountain was never a brother to him,” she remembers now. “And I think the North would suit him: Sandor Clegane never cared for knights or…or ceremony or notions of gallantry.” _Or songs. He warned me, but I learned too late._ “Of course, I soon learned to feel the same,” she adds sadly.

“Hm,” the Greatjon remarks absently and rubs his arm.

“My lord,” Sansa inquires, “are you injured?”

“Hm? Just sore. Eddard cannot best me as yet but it seems he can wear me out,” he jests.

Sansa puts her hand on his arm. “Mayhaps you should rest, my lord. I needs see to Lyanna before the evening meal.”

He smiles at her; then bends over her. “Shall we take our meal in our chambers, Sansa?” he murmurs.

Sansa drops her eyes and blushes. He had taken her just last night when they had retired to their chamber. He had gazed tenderly and longingly at her in the solar as she sang for the children, and when they came together her own passion had matched his. They had slid to the floor and coupled atop a bearskin rug without first undressing, and she had been in a comically telling disarray when her maid had knocked to assist her in preparing for bed.

“If it please you…my lord,” she replies softly and stretches to kiss him. She savors the warmth of his tongue against hers and pulls away slowly but he grasps and pulls her closely for a moment. Sansa wraps her slender arms around him and lets him hold her, feeling his love and her own. She closes her eyes.

“Run along and see to Lyanna and my next grandchild, Sansa. We’ll speak later,” he tells her.

She smiles warmly at him and bows her head, then she turns from him and the heart tree to return to the keep.

…….

After examining Lyanna with Berena, Sansa walks towards her chamber. As she passes the solar, she sees her husband in his chair by the hearth fire and so she smiles and enters to join him, thinking that they might retire to their chambers early.

“Lyanna will to the great hall for supper with Lord Jon, my lord, and so the children are less like to miss us,” she begins and then stumbles when her foot strikes a drinking horn on the wood floor and it goes scattering across the room. When she looks down in surprise, she sees that it has rolled and emptied itself from where he sits. _He has fallen asleep,_ she realizes, and yet the noise did not wake him. She steps closer and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder to rouse him.

“My lord?”

His great bearded head lolls to one side and now she sees that his eyes are open, but he does not see her. Sansa’s heart stops.

“Oh,” she breathes in sudden realization, “oh, no…”


	62. Chapter 62

Sansa sinks to her knees next to the chair as her legs give out beneath her. She shakes her head without thinking.

“No, please,” she pleads softly.

“Mother?”

“Eddard: fetch your brother…and the maester, quickly.” Sansa tells him without turning to look at him.

“What’s wrong-“ he begins.

Now she turns on him suddenly: “ _Go_ , Eddard! Hurry!”

When she turns back, she looks upon her husband’s face and lifts a trembling hand to his beard. “Please, my lord, my love: stay with us… _stay_ , my Greatjon,” she whispers hoarsely. She moves her hand from his beard to his chest and rests it atop his heart through the quilted wool tunic he has worn instead of his furs since Spring came. Sansa had begun to embroider some of them with his sigil. She presses her forehead into his shoulder. “No…”

She feels heavy and empty all at once, too stunned to feel pain or anything but disbelieving shock. She does not want to move, or breathe, or see: she does not think that she wants to feel anything ever again from this moment, for everything from this moment will be without him. _It cannot be true: how can a man so strong and alive be gone?_ But then she feels a firm hand on her own shoulder.

“My lady,” Lord Jon says gently. “My lady, I am sorry.”

Sansa breathes in a great quavering breath and lifts her head to him. She sees that he is not looking at her but looks at his father with a sad and heavy countenance and so he must have been standing over him for some moments. When he withdraws his hand from her shoulder it is to pass it over his father’s face, closing his eyes forever. She clutches her hands over her mouth and shakes and shakes until finally her own eyes fill and spill over with hot tears that stream down her cheeks. She hears footsteps behind her that slow and stop suddenly.

“Mother?’ her son inquires uncertainly.

His brother replies. “Father is gone, Eddard. We must be brave now, and honour him as befits the Lord of House Umber and the Last Hearth. Comfort your mother now,” he prompts him firmly.

When her son turns to her, she sees the loss and pain in his eyes and opens her arms to him to hold him close. “My sweet boy,” she tells him, “your father loved you so much and was so proud of you. We- we must be strong,” she stammers though she does not feel strong but helpless but she must comfort her children who will look to her for reassurance now. “We must be as strong as your father. We must make him proud, still.”

Eddard sets his chin firmly to stop it trembling and he nods resolutely even as his eyes water. “Y-yes, Mother,” he states shakily yet despite his resolve she feels him rest his head on her shoulder when she embraces him; she reaches to smooth his thick hair and kisses his cheek.

“Milady, I have brought Lady Serena,” she hears Berena says somberly. When Sansa looks, Serena’s pretty face is hard with hurt and anger and so she knows that her daughter had been told her father is dead.

“Serena, my little bird…” Sansa begins as she holds out her hand to her.

“NO!” She runs to her father and tries to throw her arms around him. “No, Da, no!” She wails and sobs and clings to him until both Sansa and Lord Jon must pull her away.

“Sister, little sister, be brave-“ Smalljon counsels her gently.

“NO!” she screams and strikes him high on his chest with her closed fist. “I want Da _always_!”

“Serena! Serena, come,” Sansa pleads as she pulls her thrashing daughter to her. “Your father would want you to be brave. I want him always too, little bird, but that cannot be now. Hush now. _Sh_.” Sansa rocks and soothes her though she wishes to scream and cry as Serena does. “I know you love him; he loved _you_ , my little bird, he loved you so much,” she kisses her head and holds her closer still until her fight has left her and only her sobbing remains. “You are his little Umber girl, Serena, and so you must be brave. _Shh_ …”

When she looks up again, Sansa sees the maester is standing behind Lord Jon, and that Lyanna stands next to Berena and that she rests one hand on her swollen belly as she wipes away tears with the other. Uncle Hother stands as still as stone with a grim face and cold eyes: the face of a man who has lost many and is left behind with his silent grief. In the doorway are maids and servants and soldiers: the young have looks of sadness tinged with shock and confusion while the older men are resigned and respectful and determined. They know what needs be done. They all seem to be looking back at her.

“My lady you have the sympathy and condolences of all at Last Hearth,” the maester tells her solemnly and sincerely. “When you agree,” he intones delicately, “they will begin preparing Lord Umber for his vigil.”

Sansa stares and then swallows her pain and grief. She is the Lady of Last Hearth, and her life is not her own nor is her lord. She must do her duty to him and to all as is expected of her. She scrubs her cheeks with the back of her hand and releases her child.

“Stand with Eddard, Serena,” she whispers to her firmly and her daughter obeys vacantly as her brother takes her hand and helps her to her feet. Sansa stands as well now, slowly and wearily; and then she lifts her chin determinately.

“I thank you all for your assistance and your kindness at…at this…this most _unhappy_ time. My-my lord watched over us all at Last Hearth; I trust that you will all do the same for him now,” she tells them in a quavering voice.

The young ginger-haired soldier, who is not so young anymore Sansa sees now, steps forward and bows his head formally and respectfully. He then turns to Lord Jon. “My lord?” he addresses him.

“Take him to the maester’s and prepare him for the Great Hall. Let the garrison and the people of Last Hearth gather and stand vigil for their lord, Greatjon Umber,” his son and heir commands. Soldiers step into the solar now and Sansa drops her eyes and gathers her children to her side. She cannot bear to look at them handle him and carry him away; it is bad enough that she can hear the chair scrape against the hardwood floor and the grunts and heavy breaths of the soldiers as they lift him to carry him to the maester’s sick chambers to be stripped and washed and dressed again to lie atop a table in the Great Hall under the banners of his house. Instead she turns her head to Berena and Lyanna.

“Oh, Sansa, I am so sorry,” Lyanna whispers to her. “I loved him like a father; and I know that you cared for him-“

“I love him,” Sansa counters shortly. “Berena may I ask your assistance please?’ she asks hoarsely. “Will you take the children to be dressed properly and send someone for the garb to dress my lord and then send my maid to help me dress myself?” she says dully. “We must all stand vigil with the family this night.”

“Yes, milady,” the older woman assures her. “Come now, Serena and Eddard,” she says gently.

When she returns to her chambers; _mine, not ours anymore,_ she thinks, she goes straight to his chest of clothing and brings out the brown quilted tunic he had worn when he had first met her in the yard at Last Hearth.

_Forgive me, Sansa: forgive an old man for falling tumble-down in love with a pretty young girl and her proud seat on a horse._

He had loved her from that moment, she remembers him telling her; how she wished that she could go back to that moment and start over. She would love him as he had loved her, and they would have years together and mayhaps more children. A sob escapes from her and her eyes fill again.

 _Stop that now,_ she upbraids herself harshly. _You must do your duty now as Lady of Last Hearth: your last duty to him._ She remembers how proud he was of her in his hall, when they greeted guests or held audiences for commons and the night they stood vigil for Umber soldiers. _Now his soldiers will stand vigil for him, and I with them._

Her maid comes to help her dress, and she chooses her darkest blue wool gown ornamented with black embroidery with grey undershirt and skirts. She has the older woman braid her hair tightly and tie the end with a simple leather cord. _How he loved my hair,_ she thinks and then wonders at her maid’s reaction if she were to ask her to cut it all off to forestall her from tearing it out in handfuls in her grief.

“Will ye not be takin’ a shawl to th’hall, m’lady? T’will grow cold right quick with the doors open to th’commons, m’lady.”

“Commons?” Sansa asks absently.

“Aye, m’lady: they’s been gatherin’ in th’yard since word spread to th’village. They be sayin’ th’inn emptied a’men right quick and folks joined along as they made their way to th’Hearth, m’lady.”

“That…that is kind,” she whispers, and she nods when her maid holds up a dark grey shawl for her approval and wraps it around her shoulders. Then her maid walks to the door when a knock sounds and opens it to Lord Jon. He has changed into a dark brown tunic with red sleeves and wears his swordbelt and cloak thrown back over his wide shoulders.

“Forgive me, my lady, but some men from the village guilds have been brought up to the solar. They wish to pay their respects. Would you care to join us, or-“

“Thank you, Lord Jon…forgive me,” she says wanly, “Lord Umber,” she corrects herself now.

He stiffens. “My lady until my lord father is in the crypt, _he_ is Lord Umber…and you are Lady Umber, if it please you.”

She nods sadly. “Thank you,” she acknowledges his kindness though she heart wrings to think of her husband in the crypt below Last Hearth. _So cold, so dark._ She stands and follows him to the solar, and when she enters all the men turn and bow and they murmur their sympathies to her awkwardly before offering respectful words to Lord Jon about his father. Once they have left, Eddard and Serena are brought in by Berena. Sansa’s son wears a swordbelt for the first time outside the training yard, and a brown cloak over his tunic. Serena’s hair is pulled into a tight knot and she wears a high-necked brown wool dress and green undershirt under a knitted brown lamb’s wool shrug. Her eyes are hollow and red-rimmed from crying and her pretty pink mouth is downturned and quivering. Sansa kneels before them now.

“The leader of the garrison will come to bring us down to the Great Hall where we will stand vigil for your father. I know you will both be brave and strong for him, and for House Umber.”

The older soldier who escorted them North with the Thenns comes to the doorway of the solar.

“My lords, my ladies,” he addresses them with a heavy solemnity, “it is time.”

The Great Hall is ablaze with lights and crowded with people, some silent and some crying. The Greatjon lies on a large table with his hands folded to hold the pommel of his tremendous greatsword on his chest and the blade pointed down the long length of his body. Great red banners with the sigil of a roaring giant breaking his chains adorn the walls and hang from the smoke-blackened rafters. Sansa walks with the children as each holds her by the hand, and they pause before the body of the Greatjon. Sansa leans to kiss his face reverently.

“May the gods grant him rest,” she speaks softly but is heard throughout the hall.

“May the gods grant him rest,” many there repeat.

They come now to stand at the head of the table next to Lord Jon; Lyanna will not appear in the hall when so great with child since she would not be able to stand. There is a great creaking of doors heard and a strong draft from the entrance into the Great Hall and that make the torches and candle flames all waver and cast dancing shadows about the walls and over people’s faces.

People from the village and the closest crofts file by the table and bow their heads to the family while women curtsey and dab at their eyes with the corners of their shawls or aprons. The hours pass with naught to be heard but the crackle of the fires in the great hearths, the shuffling of many feet and the whispered comments, respectful and personal, of those who pass. Sansa feels the many eyes on her and her children and hears the murmurs of _so young_ and _so beautiful_ and _poor children_ , and she feels Eddard bristle and sees his posture stiffen. She lets go of his hand and places her own on his shoulder. Serena sniffles and cries softly with her head bowed and Sansa holds her small hand tighter and fights back her own tears. When her daughter begins to droop and yawn, Berena steps forward with a soldier to wrap her in a blanket and carry her to bed. It is almost the hour of the owl when two of her husband’s massive brothers arrive with their equally massive sons from their small tower keeps near Long Lake and the Lonely Hills respectively. They push through the crowds of smallfolk to bow their heads and embrace their new lord; then they greet young Eddard and finally pay their respects to Sansa. They address her as Lady Sansa and she nods politely and without reproach for despite Lord Jon’s courtesy towards her, his wife Lyanna is now the Lady Umber of Last Hearth. Finally they take their places behind the heir and join the vigil.

It is just past the hour of the wolf when Eddard stumbles and his brother whispers to him and pats his back. Her son then quietly wishes her good night and leaves dragging his feet and nearly staggering from fatigue. Well past the hour of the nightingale there are no more visitors and the doors leading to the yard are closed though those from the Great Hall are still open. Soldiers come and go to replace those on watch. Finally Sansa steps closer to Lord Jon.

“Lord Jon, might I beg a moment alone with…with my lord?” she asks.

“The vigil is not ended,” her husband’s youngest brother has overheard her request. “It is not right that he should be left unattended.” He looks reproachfully at her.

Sansa is too tired to accept this chastisement or to relent. “My lord,” she begins shakily, “they will soon take my lord and husband to the crypts and I shall never look on him again. Surely I do not ask too much-“

Lord Jon raises his hand to soothe her before casting a strong glance at his uncle to silence him. Then he looks around the hall and speaks.

“Let every man standing guards retreat ten paces and turn his back; the rest of you please join me in the rear of the hall and leave Lady Umber her privacy.”

“I thank you,” Sansa tells him.

“Take such time as you need, my lady,” he tells her and walks away.

Sansa approaches the table where her husband lies and attempts to accept that she will soon never look upon him again. She needs bite her lip to keep from crying out in anguish and quickly wipes away the tears that have welled up in her eyes. She leans close to him now and speaks from her heart.

“I am sorry… for all that I did and did not do for you, for any harm that I have caused. I- I did not know…and so I did not realize all that you had done for me. You gave me all that I had ever truly wanted: a home in the North, a family of my own, and love: you loved me for myself and who I am. You protected me, and you taught me, and you waited patiently for me to grow up and to love you back. And that was the greatest gift I could have ever had…”

She sniffles again and takes a deep breath. “We never got to go to Long Lake…to swim…I thought we had years-“ her voice breaks again and she needs stop for a moment.

“M-my love…my love, I- I have something for you,” she says quietly as she reaches into her pocket. She retrieves the small leather pouch that he had worn to the Wall. It has been twined around her bedpost since he gave it back to her; but now she reaches to fasten in around his neck.

“I- I gave you my heart for safekeeping once…do you remember?  I wrote you that I would not have need of it without you…and that it would die of loneliness,” she squeaks out hoarsely. “I am entrusting it to you again, my love, my Greatjon…only this time you will not be able to bring it back to me. Take my heart with you, my love, and keep it close forever, for I shall not have need of it again in this world.” She sobs softly now and caresses his beard with her hand as she leans to gently kiss his lips one last time. She does not linger there; she cannot bear to think that he has gone cold.

“Goodbye, my love. Sweet, sweet rest be granted to you. I shall think of you always. I shall love you always…and so will our children. We will never forget you, my Greatjon.”

Sansa bows her head and lets herself cry quietly for a moment before gathering herself and raising her eyes again. She looks to the back of the hall and nods to Lord Jon who approaches the table again.

“I- Forgive me but I do not think that I can bear to see them put him in his coffin; nor do I wish for the children to see. I will go to wake them and to prepare them. Might I ask that you send for us when it is done? We will follow from the hall to the crypt with him,” she requests humbly.

“It shall be as you say, my lady. I do not wish for you or the children to suffer any further pain,” he hesitates now. “Is there aught else that may be done for you, my lady?”

Sansa is at a loss. _There is only one thing I want, and I can never have it now._ “There is not, Lord Jon. I - I am grateful for all your kindness, to me and to the children.”

He nods his acknowledgment of her words and turns back to stand over his father’s corpse.

Sansa takes one long, last look at her husband and closes her eyes. Then she bows her head and turns and, with her hands folded together before her, she walks slowly from the Great Hall, leaving her heart behind.


	63. Chapter 63

 Sansa lies perfectly still and stares up at the ceiling. The furs are pulled up to her chin and the fire blazes in the hearth but she has never felt so cold. She has never felt so…nothing; not even when she lost Lady, or when her father was beheaded. She is empty, numb, stunned, and feels that she has been sleepwalking through a nightmare from which she cannot awaken: a nightmare in which everyone she knows is solicitous and sympathetic but is it somehow still wrong. She feels as though all the people who look to her and speak to her are the wrong person. None of them is the person she wants; none of the things they say are the words that she wants to hear. Her children are sad. Her daughter cries; her son does not. Sansa does not know which is worse.

She cannot understand. Two nights ago she lay next to her husband, curled into his enormous strong body with his massive arms holding her close. Last night she stood vigil over his dead body in the Great Hall with hundreds of other people. This morning she followed his coffin to the crypt where his son and brothers and the soldiers lifted the great pine box into the hollowed-out granite tomb and lay a heavy stone slab over top and shut him away from the world forever. Pain tore through her like sharp talons raking at her insides but she stood perfectly still. Her drawn-out, agonizing wail reverberated inside her head where only she could hear it. As the heavy stone grinded into place, Serena clutched at Sansa’s legs and buried her face in her skirts and cried until she very nearly choked on her own tears, and Sansa could only pat her head absently. It was Lord Jon carried Serena back up into the daylight. Sansa thinks if one of her massive good-brothers had not offered her his arm, she would still be standing dumbly at the foot of the tomb in the crypt.

She watches the firelight cast shadows upon the ceiling. She refuses to turn towards the hearth where they had sometimes lain and slept and loved on piles of soft furs. She cannot look to his side of the bed where he snored and his body gave off warmth and his very presence made her feel safe, even as he slumbered naked with a great hairy arm thrown across his closed eyes.

There is a creak now and she remembers how the bed creaked when he sat or lay down or turned over or rolled onto her; but then she sees the light from the doorway cast by the torch in the hall make a wide band on the ceiling. Someone has entered her chambers. She catches her breath.

“Mama?” her daughter calls uncertainly.

Sansa sits up suddenly. “Serena? My little bird, what are you-“

Serena rushes to her bedside quickly in bare feet and a linen bedgown trimmed with ribbons and pauses only long enough for Sansa to see her two big sad and frightened eyes before her daughter clambers up onto the furs beside her.

“I don’t want to be alone; I want you to be with you, Mama,” she tells her.

Sansa smiles sadly and strokes her daughter’s thick, soft hair that swirls around her shoulders. “Very well, Serena, you may stay here with me. Come and lie down.” She takes her daughter in her arms and curls up so they are close together and she feels warm again and not so very lost or numb.

“I want Da,” her daughter whispers.

“So do I,” Sansa whispers longingly.

After a short pause, a small sob escapes her daughter’s lips. “I want to fly away, Mama,” Serena whispers tearfully.

Sansa breathes a heavy sigh and feels her own tears gather behind her eyes. “So do I, little bird…so do I.”

They hold each other tighter now as they both cry themselves to sleep.

…….

“...and Lady Mormont arrived only last night. She came with Alysane and her children, the ones she claims were fathered by a bear…I know how you always laugh at that… Lyanna was already abed; but Lord Jon welcomed them properly and so they will be here for the lying-in. The women had such kind things to say about you, my lord; you are so very well regarded here in the North, and throughout Westeros…so many high lords from the Riverlands and the Eyrie who fought alongside you in wars have sent ravens expressing their condolences.”

Sansa runs her hand upon the cold, dark slab and sits gingerly on the edge. _Jon Umber – Lord of House Umber_ had been chiseled into the stone along with the years of his birth and death on the very day of his burial, and Sansa has brought wildflowers from the godswood every day since. She does not know what else to do with herself and her time. Her son has his training and his lessons; and Serena has shut herself in her chamber and refuses to study or sew or play, even with Gretel.

“Eddard would make you so very proud, my lord: he has been keeping company with all the Umber men and only this morning Lord Jon told him how well he is behaving. And Serena…” Sansa sighs with a heavy heart. “Serena is heartbroken, my love: pray do not judge her too harshly. She loved you so much and she is very like you: unreserved and willful but big-hearted; nothing of the Stark nature at all...” She raises her hands to her face and sobs now. “Oh gods, she is so very young to have lost you…however am I to manage without you?”

Suddenly there is a loud clanking thump behind her and Sansa jumps up and yelps in surprise. When she turns she sees Whoresbane Umber has set a pewter tankard down on the stone behind her. He has another tankard in his hand, and both Lady Mormont and Lady Alysane, in breeches and mail, stand behind him with tankards of their own.

“Oh…f-forgive me,” Sansa wipes her eyes and nods her head to their guests. “I did not hear you approach-“

“You would not have heard an army approach above that caterwauling, girl. What are you doing spending waking hours down here? You’re not dead,” he snaps.

“No,” Sansa answers despondently. “No, I am not.”

“Wishing you were, is it? Meaning to spend your life pining over a corpse?” he retorts harshly.  “Pull yourself together, girl: d’you think he’d want this for you?” he demands, nodding to the stone slab beneath her hand.

“I- no-“ she stammers.

“Men or gods’ll take your life quick enough, girl…we who’ve fought in wars all seen and know that,” he gestures to the women behind him. “Don’t you be throwin’ it away now. You’ll grow bitter…an’ old afore your time…like Mors did,” he waves a hand towards his brother’s grave now; and Sansa gasps at the comparison.

“But I- I only- I _miss_ him,” she says feelingly and drops her eyes as her tears come again.

“Miss him but don’t live for him; Mors let his grieving pull him down into darkness ‘til he was as dead inside as them he mourned before he was even in the crypt. I like you, girl: you made the lord happy, but you’re a fool if you think this’d make him happy, to see you down here in the darkness mewling like a stray cat.”

“Alright, old man, that’s enough upbraiding the lady for one day,” Lady Mormont scolds him mildly. “Go talk with old Crowfoot. I’ve not yet had a word with Lady Sansa.”

Her husband’s uncle walks off the short distance grumbling and muttering as Lady Mormont and her daughter come towards her. The She-Bear sets her tankard down on the stone and Sansa can smell the strong dark ale her husband favoured.

“I wanted one last cup with the Greatjon,” she tells Sansa firmly. “We shared enough of them after battles, so it seemed fitting.”

“I- I am certain that he would agree, my lady,” Sansa replies. “Please forgive me-“

“Oh, none of that now, for I’m not so hard as old Hother. But he is right,” she adds with a shrewd eye on Sansa, “you can’t be spending your days down here…no matter how you might miss him. You’ve a life to lead…and children to see to. The gods only know how such a big and loud, blustering man would take up space in your life and your bed, so the world must seem very empty without him in it. But it will pass, girl…Lady Sansa,” she corrects herself, “or do you want to be known as the Dowager Lady Umber?” she asks archly.

Sansa shakes her head now. “Sansa…you may call me Sansa…if it please you, my lady…”

“Then we are Maege and Alysane to you, Sansa,” she replies.

“Dacey fought with both Smalljon and the Greatjon, Sansa. She will have been sorry to hear that he passed. We sent a raven when we heard, but we did not hear until we reached the inn near the Kingsroad,” Alysane tells her now.

“You are kind to come for Lyanna’s lying-in. My own mother came for my first, and it was a comfort. The maester, the midwife and I have done all we can for her-“

“Aye, and she’s said so. She’s very fond of you, Sansa, and concerned for you now. She says you are gentle and kind-hearted, and that loved him truly; you are young still too, and so all this is hard for you.”

Sansa nods and tries to still her quivering chin. “He…he was so good to me, and to the children. I know that he was big and rough and loud but he was gentle too, and generous, and…and good-hearted as well-“

Maege Mormont tilts her head. “Well, you had it better than the first one then,” she states flatly. “There was no tender-hearted affection ‘twixt those two. And it seems you made him happy; and he made you happy. Well, good. But he’s gone now, and though it’s right that you mourn it’s also right that you go on and live your life. You’re too young to end it pining away, as Hother says. Will you not visit your family, Sansa? Might do you good to put leagues between yourself and this place,” she nods as she casts her eyes about the crypt.

“L-leave Last Hearth?” Sansa asks with a glance down at the tomb. “I- I do not think-“

“Not today, not tomorrow but mayhaps after Lyanna is on her feet again. Send ravens, make plans, give yourself something to look forward to.”

“You would be very welcome at Bear Island, Sansa; and we can stop to visit the mountain clans on the journey home. They loved your lord father and King Robb: they’d be honoured to have you,” Alysane offers.

“You are very generous,” Sansa replies, “but…it is much to think about-“

“Well, do think on it; we’ll be here at least a moon’s turn. Now…if we can have some time with this one,” Maege Mormont indicates the Greatjon’s grave, “we’d like to raise a cup to him once more,” she says sincerely.

Sansa nods now, and tries to smile bravely. “I will leave you to it then.” She looks desolately at the stone again and touches it reverently with her fingertips before looking back at the Mormonts . “I- I thank you for your kindness.”

…….

As Sansa comes out of the crypts, she sees Eddard running to her from across the yard. He wears his swordbelt, as he has every day since his father died, and removes it only in the evenings when his brother and uncles and cousins do the same.

“Smalljon is asking for you Mother. He is waiting in the solar for you.”

Sansa’s throat tightens. Though he has been everything kind towards her and her children since his father left them, she is nevertheless wary. She may be his father’s widow, but she is not due the same deference as a dowager lady the likes of Lady Olenna of House Tyrell or her Aunt Lysa in the Vale or even her own lady mother. Her son is not the heir, and she is no longer the lady of the castle. She knows that Lord Jon would not be so cruel as to turn out his late father’s young widow and children for such an action would condemn him as cruel and heartless in the eyes of both nobles and commons; but by rights he can send her children away as wards and reduce her circumstances to penury so that she must pander to his good will, or worse, be at the mercy of his desires. Though he has seemed content with Lyanna since his father counselled him to seek happiness in marriage, Sansa is fearful that he may still resent her for having loved his father after him.

“Very well, Eddard. I will go now, thank you.”

“I’m to be there as well, Mother…I think it must be about Father. The uncles and cousins are with him.” He takes her hand and walks with her to the castle and up the stairs.

When they arrive, she sees that Eddard is right: they are all waiting for her. She clasps her hands together and bows her head and curtseys. “My lords,” she greets them formally.

“My lady,” Lord Jon greets her, “will you please be seated. There is business of my late father’s that needs be attended, and I wished to do so while all the Lords Umber are present. Maester, if you would begin,” he prompts him.

“My lords, my lady, as you well know, Lord Jon is heir to his father and is so Lord of Last Hearth and all its lands and so is by rights entitled to our fealty and loyalty and -“

“We all know this, maester,” the Greatjon’s youngest brother interrupts him, “is it to have us swear to our new lord that we are gathered here?”

“Is that necessary?” Lord Jon asks him lightly but with a challenge in his dark eyes.

“I know my place, and my duty, my lord,” the man insists firmly, “but if it is vows and oaths you need, then only say so plainly.”

“Thank you, Uncle; however I do not doubt your fealty or any of those gathered here. But there is a particular bequest of my father’s that I wish made known so that there should be no challenge to it after this day…so if you would let the maester continue?”

The maester harrumphs and brings a scroll from his sleeve. “Lord Umber…the _late_ Lord Umber requested that the gold stores that were his spoils from the Westerlands during the War of Five Kings should, upon his death, become the sole property of the Lady Sansa Umber. He felt it due to her for all that she suffered at the hands of House Lannister during her captivity in King’s Landing.”

There is a heavy silence in the solar, and Sansa realizes that once again all eyes on her expectantly, and once again she is in a confused state of shock. “I- I do not understand, I am afraid: spoils? Gold?” she begins.

“My lady, surely you know that Lord Umber captured Lannister gold mines in Castamere and Nunn’s Deep and the Pendric Hills during the wars?” the maester speaks to her as though she were a slow-witted child.

“Yes, of course, but were the mines not returned to the crown of Westeros when King Renly made terms with King Robb?”

Lord Jon smiles faintly now. “They were, my lady; but the gold stores captured from the mines had already been used to pay ransoms for Northern lords held prisoner, and given to Lord Edmure to help relieve hunger and poverty in the Riverlands caused by the Mountain’s brutal campaigns. Fields and grain stores and even livestock were burned, and just as winter was coming. But King Robb was grateful to my father for his victories, and so permitted him to keep a share of the spoils. My father shared some with his own men of course, but he kept, well, _the lion’s share,_ as he termed it, and brought it back to Last Hearth where it has remained ever since,” he explains. “But now it would seem he means for the Lannisters to hold to their reputation to always pay their debts, in this case to pay their debt to you.”

 “Lord Umber made this stipulation upon his return to the Wall, my lady, when…when he was ill. The scroll is written in the hand of your half-brother, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and witnessed by the sworn brother Samwell Tarly, Prince Oberyn of Dorne and bears the mark of the wildling Tormund Giantsbane,” the maester goes on to tell her.

“It would seem that you are now a rich young widow, my lady,” one Umber lord tells her, not without a touch of resentment.

 “That is not _quite_ so, my lord,” the maester continues. “The gold is not simply Lady Sansa’s to do with as she wills. You are to receive a reasonable stipend, my lady, until you die or wed again; in either case the gold will then pass to your children by Lord Umber. The gold is also meant to provide a dowry for the Lady Serena and for Lord Eddard to establish his own household when he is of age. You have been well-provided for but there are no riches to be squandered,” he pronounces loftily to all present.

“My lady, the chambers you shared with my father are yours for as long as you wish…or, if you prefer, you may take other rooms in the castle,” Lord Jon adds. “Please know that Last Hearth is your home, and your children’s home.” He reaches to pat young Eddard on the shoulder.

“I thank you,” Sansa whispers hoarsely. “Forgive me, I- I am…quite overwhelmed.”

Eddard comes to stand next to her now. “Father still takes care of us, Mother,” he tells her.

“Yes,” she nods and dabs at her eye. “Yes, Eddard, he does. And so does your brother. We are grateful, Lord Jon.” Then she remembers something important that she must ask. “If…if I may ask, m-my lords: my lord husband intended to invite nobles boys to ward at Last Hearth so that my son should not be sent to join another household at the crown’s command-“

Lord Jon nods now. “He did speak of it to me and to the maester on his last day, my lady; and letters have already been sent to the Lords Willas and Garlan Tyrell of Highgarden and Brightwater Keep regarding their young sons, and to Lord Royce of Runestone in the Vale with regard to his grandsons. Lady Alysane has brought her natural son and will leave him with with us to ward. We thought is best not to wait, and to let it be known that House Umber would honour all pledges regardless of who is Lord of Last Hearth.”

“Aye, that’s wise,” one of his uncles agrees heartily. “That little queen is sending noble children far from home to families without kin or cause in common. She means to break old alliances and forge new ones beholden only to the crown, and she has turned her eyes to the North. She and that Imp mean to bring the North securely back into the Seven Kingdoms. Best that all be done to protect the Greatjon’s boy.”

The men of House Umber all nods and mutter their agreement heartily.

“And…and what of my daughter, my lords?” she asks tentatively.

The men all exchange glances before Lord Jon looks to her again.

“We all hope that such a royal command should never come, my lady,” he tells her somberly.


	64. Chapter 64

“Farewell, my lady, and, again, our true condolences to you. We know well that you made our lord and brother a happy man…it is good to know now that his last years were happy ones.”

Sansa bows her head and curtseys to her good-brothers and their sons as she holds tightly to her wrapped shawl in the windy yard.

“I thank you, my lords, for all your many kindnesses, most especially for your attention to Eddard. Now that he has lost his father,” she says haltingly, “it is comforting to know that he has other Umber men to guide and counsel him. Your friendship is very important to him, and so to me as well,” she tells them sincerely. “I will always be grateful for it.”

“He will be welcome to visit our keeps in his brother’s company, my lady; and later when he comes of age.”

“He should like that very much, my lords,” she assures them. “His…his father taught him the importance of family.”

The big men all bow their heads to her and turn to their mounts which have been brought into the yard by stable boys and grooms. Eddard runs up to her now. His cloak billows in the wind behind him and his auburn hair ruffles across his forehead and in front of his eyes. Sansa is tempted to smooth it down but refrains from doing so when he is in the company of men. He tosses his head instead.

“I will ride out with Smalljon, Mother, to visit sheep farmers and settle the grazing rights,” he says importantly though Sansa knows that, at ten years of age, he will only be observing. “He says we will return before nightfall.”

“Remember to respect our common folk, as your father taught you,” she advises gently. “And please thank them on our behalf if they should express their condolences to you.”

“I will, Mother,” he tells her.

Behind him, Sansa sees both Eddard’s horse and her husband’s horse led into the yard. She is startled to see his mount saddled and ready as she had so many times. Her surprise must show in her face, because Eddard notices. He turns to the horse and then back to her.

“Smalljon says Father’s horse needs to be exercised, Mother, and I am not big enough to ride him yet.”

“O-of course…” she stammers. “That is wise, Eddard…your father’s horse is accustomed to exercise.”

“Ready, Eddard?” Lord Jon asks as he approaches them; he stops when he sees Sansa’s face but she recovers graciously.

“You are good to take Eddard with you, Lord Jon. H-he needs a man’s influence and company…more than ever now,” she remarks conciliatorily.

“I am glad to do it, my lady; Eddard learns quickly, and is good company.” He grasps the horse’s mane as he puts his booted foot in the stirrup and swings up easily into the saddle. He takes the reins and speaks to the animal. “Come on then, let’s get you out again.” He turns his heels to its flanks and rides off through the gates that are still open after his uncles and cousins have departed. Eddard follows and Sansa watches them leave until she realizes that she is still standing in the yard with her shawl clutched tightly to her long after the gates have been closed . She looks around at all the activity as servants go about their tasks. She hears the hammer in the forge, and neighing from the stables and curses from the guardsmen atop the tower by the gate. She hears a large dog bark and then sees it run through the yard; shortly after another smaller dog follows, sniffing at the ground.

_I could visit with Lyanna and her family; or mayhaps she would like me to check the stores or the kitchens. I can read, or sew…_

The wind blows strands of her hair loose and the skirts of her gown flutter around her ankles. Sansa raises her head to see white clouds pass quickly across the blue sky.

She turns to look towards the stables again when she hear a loud whiny inside.

The wind is still pushing clouds across sky and gusting through the treetops as she turns her grey mare onto a bridle path leading into the forest. Soon she is engulfed in the shade of the sentinel pines and she closes her eyes to listen to the rustling sound of the leaves overhead and the screeches of strikes. She had yearned for the sights and sounds of the North while a hostage in King’s Landing, and her years at Last Hearth have made her love them all the more and she takes what strength she can from them now, especially knowing that her husband loved the North as well. 

“Are you warm enough, Serena? It is cooler here in the shade but not so very windy as when we were out in the open.”

“Yes, Mama,” her daughter replies hollowly. She sits astride her pony in her wool cloak, the reins slack in her small hands, as she stares vacantly and somewhat sullenly between the animal’s ears. She had not wanted to ride out, or to leave her chamber even.  Sansa remembered how it was to mourn her own father: how she had given herself up to darkness and despair, and so she had insisted as gently as she could that Serena should come riding with her.

“Hold your reins proper, girl, like your fa-… like you were taught,” Great-uncle Hother chides her brusquely. “It’s you that leads the horse, not t’other way ‘round.” He had insisted on accompanying them when he had seen them heading to the yard in cloaks and gloves and boots, and said that high-born women had no cause to ride out unescorted. Despite his rough manner, Sansa was quietly grateful for his attention to them.

Serena furrows her brow at his words, _just like her father_ , but she straightens her back and picks up her reins as he has told her. Her pony tosses his head and then settles.

“We will only go as far as the glen, I promise; and then we can turn back,” Sansa placates her. “The horses need to be taken out; and you have always liked riding.” _Before_ , she omits saying; but Serena does not even nod.

“I- I have been thinking, Serena,” she begins again, “Lyanna will birth another babe very soon, and you no longer needs have a room so close to the nursery. I thought we might take new chambers…just us, or mayhaps Eddard will like to join us as well. You are a young lady of eight years now, and you should have a maid and not a nurse.”

“Where?’ Her daughter asks tentatively after a short pause.

“On the floor above, facing east, there are empty rooms that might prove suitable. We will have adjoining bedchambers, and our own solar; and there is,” she lowers her voice discreetly, “a privy down the hall. Our chambers will be bright and sunny…but we can consider other rooms, if you would prefer to look out on the main yard. I want you to be happy, Serena,” she tells her now.

Their mounts plod along the bridle path and Sansa mare blows air through its nostrils.

“Can Gretel come too?” Serena asks finally, and Sansa is relieved that she has shown some interest in her notion.

“Yes, my little bird, we will find a room for Gretel too.”

…….

_“Stay-”_

Sansa wakes with a start when she cries out, and then sits up in the dark and looks around her new bedchamber. After taking a quavering breath she begins to cry softly. She has dreamt before of her husband in the near-moon’s turn since his passing, but this is the first time that she has dreamt that he was holding her in his arms. She closes her eyes and wraps her own slender arms around herself as she tries to remember the feel of his great warm hands in her hair and on her skin, of his lips on her lips and on her body. She presses her thighs together tightly and tries to forget the feel of his hard member moving inside of her, and she cries harder.

_Gods, my love, I miss you more and more…every day and every night. It is so very hard to live without you._

She has settled into new chambers, determined to make a life for herself devoted to her children; but she is still a young woman and her mind and body want her husband. She feels that it has been a lifetime since she has been kissed and she wants to feel his body next to hers. She wants to feel loved, and desired, and that she is beautiful. She wants to share her joys and her concerns, and to be comforted and to laugh. She wants all this with him. She must be haunted by memories that make her weep helplessly; or she must forget. She is a widow. She is four-and-twenty.

Sansa turns back the furs that cover her and puts her bare feet on the hard wooden floor. Her bed is smaller than the bed she shared with her husband; the long wide frame and feather mattress would never have fit into her smaller bedchamber. Eddard sleeps in their old bed, in his new chamber on the floor below; she has told him that he would grow into it in good time. He is a big strong boy and very much an Umber.

Her daughter’s chamber is across the hall. Sansa gave the adjoining chambers to Serena and Gretel, and the room next to her own is their solar. Sansa puts her feet into fur slippers and wraps a shawl around her shoulders over her bedgown and walks there now. She keeps her sewing basket and needlework by the hearth, and her harp in another corner. There is a table at which they sit when Sansa teaches the girls their letters and sums, or needlework; and they sometimes take their meals there. They join the family in their larger solar in the evenings, but most of their days are now spent here. Silent little Gretel spins and weaves with the women after midday when Serena goes to her lessons with the maester or Sansa takes her riding with Uncle Hother or Eddard and one time with Maege Mormont, who told Serena tales of the Greatjon in battle that had the unintended effect of making the girl cry with longing for her father.

In the solar Sansa pauses before the hearth to place a log atop the embers that are still glowing orange and she prods it with a brass poker until flames begin to catch and the wood begins to crackle and burn. Moonbeams slant in through the heavy leaded glass panes of the windows and cast a bluish light until the yellow firelight fills the room. Sansa lights a candle and sits at her writing desk where she withdraws a scroll from the drawer: a scroll that had arrived only two days before.

                _To Lady Sansa Umber, Dowager Lady of Last Hearth~_

_Doubtless you will have received House Tyrell’s formal letter of sympathy to House Umber, but please accept my own very sincere condolences for your sad loss, Lady Sansa. I pray that it will not seem too untoward that I should address you personally, my lady, since we have never met  but your late lord himself did send to me a personal message only last year when, as you know,  I suffered the passing of my own lady wife. Lord Umber assured me that all pain from loss lessens with the passage of time, and he advised me to remain vigilant to the needs of my young children, saying that profound grief can unintentionally lead to neglect and estrangement.  He further counselled that, like him, I might hope to find happiness again someday, as he had with you. I wished to share his kind words with you so as to offer you the same sincere and heartfelt counsel, and the same wish, my lady, that you should find someday find happiness again._

_My sister Margaery and my late grandmother Lady Olenna had spoken to me of your great kindness and gentleness and of your singular beauty, my lady; and it pains me to know that you should suffer more grief than I know you already have. But if in time, mayhaps in another year or longer, you should feel that your mourning is easing sufficiently that you should give a thought to your future happiness, I would invite you to visit Highgarden with your children and your lady mother, if it please you. If we should chance to find that friendship and mutual respect then grows between us, I would propose that we consider joining our two families as one. I wish very sincerely for your happiness, my lady, even if it you should find it elsewhere. All that I ask of you, if it is not too troubling, is that you might do me the kindness of casting a motherly eye and such affection as you might deign to show to my youngest son when he comes to be Lord Umber’s ward at Last Hearth. He still mourns his mother; and I would not be willing to send him so very far away had I not felt assured by my own family that he should not want for a sweet feminine presence.  For this kindness, my lady, you may be assured of my devoted friendship and boundless gratitude._

_Yours faithfully, Lord Willas of House Tyrell in Highgarden_

His signature was underlined with a flourish and sealed with the golden rose emblem of his house. Lord Willas was not yet the Lord of Highgarden; his father still lived though his shrewd and wizened grandmother Lady Olenna, styled the Queen of Thorns, had passed without having succeeded in her intent to marry Sansa to her grandson. She wonders if he has made his offer, such as it is, of his own accord or if his father or sister Margaery has prompted him to act. She knows that he is man of good reputation, and that he needs no longer marry for alliance or heirs and so she concludes that she has no reason to doubt his sincerity.

Reaching for a clean scroll of her own, Sansa then uncaps a bottle of maester’s black and resolutely dips her quill in the ink before putting it to parchment.

                _My Lord Willas,_

_I thank you most sincerely for your kind words that are not in the least untoward. In truth I am pleased and grateful that you should tell me of my late lord husband’s kindness to you . That he should have offered such wise and warm words  to you naturally does not surprise me but it is a wonderful comfort to know that another should have recognized and appreciated his gentle and compassionate qualities so well as I have. I loved my lord truly and so my grief is very great, I cannot deny. Lord Umber was a wonderful husband and father, and our children miss him very much. I have therefore decided that it is of great importance to me to see them raised in his family seat, as Umbers of Last Hearth, out of great respect and sincere love for his memory. My own happiness will never again be as important to me as the happiness of my lord’s children, and so it is to them that I intent to devote my coming years._

_I have also heard much of you, from your late lady grandmother and Lady Margaery, and your reputation as a man of honour and kindness and worth is well-known even in the North, Lord Willas. I have no doubt that you would make a lady very happy, and that you are more than deserving of sincere kindness and affection and respect. I do regret to say that I shall not, in good time, feel prepared to be that lady who should offer these heartfelt gifts to you. My heart, and all that I am, is bound to life in the North._

_You ask no hardness of me to show compassion and kindness to your young son, my lord, for it shall be my pleasure to do so; and I offer you unreserved assurance that he will be well treated by all at Last Hearth. Lord Jon Umber, my good-son, and his lady wife, the Lady Lyanna of House Mormont, have recently been blessed with a second son, and they are kind parents and most loving towards my two children and my young ward, a girl from beyond the Wall.  It is my hope that your son will forge a lifelong friendship with my own boy, Lord Eddard, and with the grandson of Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone. I am sorry that your son shall not have the company of his cousin when at Last Hearth but, as you certainly must know, Lord Garlan Tyrell has sent his regrets as his son has instead been commanded to serve at the court of her Grace, Queen Daenerys._

_I shall treasure your offer of friendship, my lord, and forever be grateful for your kind reminiscence of my late lord husband. I sincerely hope that we should have chance to meet someday. Pray accept my reasons for why that cannot be someday soon._

_With sincere respect, Lady Sansa Umber_

She blots the ink with fine sand and blows it gently from the parchment before rolling it tightly and sealing it with brown wax and the stamp of House Umber. She will ask the maester to send it in the morning.

Sansa leans back and smiles sadly but tenderly. She understands now that the Greatjon left her a stipend so that she would not needs marry again in haste but instead wished for her to have the freedom to make her own choice of a worthy man; and his decree that her claim to the gold will end and revert to their children when she marries ensures that no man will want her for his own enrichment. Any man who wants her would needs want her for her own self alone.

She toys and fiddles with the sealed scroll in her hand. Willas Tyrell would seem to be just such a man; but Sansa is not ready to contemplate marriage again and she is certain that, regardless of his kind heart and excellent qualities, she will likely never wish to travel or live in the South again. Highgarden is known as a castle of great culture and learning, and the Reach is regarded as the seat of chivalry in Westeros. At one time it would have been all that she had ever wanted and more; but no longer. All Sansa wants is here in the North, and it is what she wants for her children as well.

She has decided to consider the advice of the Ladies Mormont, and to think of one day travelling to visit her own family. She still hopes to visit Arya at Karhold and to meet her twin sons and their new little brother.  Lord Harrion had extended the hospitality of his father’s house to Sansa and her children at any time when he sent his condolences, and Sansa is longing to see her only sister again. In time, she may take Serena back to Winterfell to visit with Robb’s daughters as well as Roslin and her own lady mother. Bran will leave for Oldtown when Rickon comes of age very soon, and it may well be her last chance to see him for many years, or mayhaps ever.

After straightening her desk, she rises with a sigh. Everyone she knows is carrying on with their lives and so she must do the same. She is satisfied that she has made the right choice for herself and for her children; but she is lonely she cannot help thinking now with a pang that cuts short her breath and causes pain in her heart.

_I must be strong, and make him proud. I must be strong for my…for our children._

Despite her resolve, when she returns to her bedchamber Sansa opens the great scarred wooden chest that sits in the corner behind the heavy door and reaches in for the large quilted brown woolen tunic that her husband wore when she first saw him at Last Hearth. She had meant for them to dress him in it for his vigil and burial, but found that she had not the strength to part with it. This is not the first time that she has sought the comfort of it between the hours of the bat and the nightingale. The heavy wool is worn and soft and if she presses her face to it, she can just smell the musky warmth of his skin. She curls up with it now, inhaling deeply and letting her tears gather behind her eyes. Her maid will find her with it in the morning and say nothing, and Sansa will fold it away again until the next time, until his scent has faded away forever and she must go on without another part of him. But not yet, she tells herself, not yet.

.......

Lyanna sits by the window in the solar with her new babe in her arms. Berena will come to take him soon so that they may all go to the Hall for supper.

“I am so pleased that you and Serena and Gretel will be dining with us this evening, Sansa. It was been so long since we have had the pleasure of your company. I do worry that you should spend so much time alone,” she says sympathetically.

“That is kind, Lyanna; but I am not alone. I have Serena and Gretel, and Eddard dines with us some evenings or comes to hear me read or sing.” She smiles fondly to see the children sitting with old Hother as he tells them tales of the children of the forest, as her father and Old Nan used to do.

“My lady,” Lord Jon says somberly and both Sansa and Lyanna turn to see him standing in the doorway with the maester. He is holding a scroll in his hand and looking at Sansa with a grim expression.

 _Dark wings, dark words,_ she thinks and pales. But before she can ask, the maester speaks.

“We have received a scroll from Kings Landing, my lady, from the court of Queen Daenerys Targaryen.”

Sansa’s heart stops beating and her throat feels like to close and choke her breath as well as her words.

“They…she asks for my daughter at court,” she says shakily.

“No, my lady,” Lord Jon tells her darkly, “she asks for you.”

 

 


	65. Chapter 65

_“By order of her Grace, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Roynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons~”_

“Likes the sound of her own titles, don’t she?” Uncle Hother observes sourly.

_“The Lady Sansa Umber, Dowager Lady of the Last Hearth, will present herself at the royal court of the Red Keep in Kings Landing to attend the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms by the year’s end-“_

Lyanna gasps: “That is in but three moons!”

Sansa stops reading and simply looks at the scroll the maester had handed to her. Her hands shake now.

“There…there is no mention of my children….it only says that I may bring but one servant, and must pay for their keep,” she tells them.

“And what does that girl know of children? She hasn’t a one,” Hother grumps again. “What kind of queen takes no husband and makes no heirs? It is said that she refuses all suitors.”

“Aye, it is said that instead she marries them to other noble ladies,” Lord Jon observes quietly.

Sansa looks at him but says nothing; instead Lyanna interjects.

“She cannot expect you to leave without your children, Sansa-”

 “She should not expect you in Kings Landing at all!” Maege Mormont intones strongly. “Why you have not even mourned your late husband; and does the dragon queen know nothing of how you were treated in the Red Keep, or what they did to your lord father?”

“My father never returned from the South…nor did my Aunt Lyanna, my Uncle Brandon and my grandfather,” Sansa recounts hollowly. “Nothing good ever comes of Starks going South…my-my lord said so himself.”

Eddard comes to stand beside her. “I will protect you, Mother,” he says determinately. “All of House Umber will fight and die for you…all of the North will fight!”

A silence follows, but Sansa already knows: she knows that houses and kingdoms fight for their liege lords, for their heirs, and sometimes for maidens. Houses do not fight for widows, unless she rules the castle; whole regions do not fight for dowager ladies. No one sings songs for the dowager ladies of vassal houses.

“Eddard,” she begins sadly, “you are brave and strong...just like your father; but the queen has dragons, and an army of the Unsullied from Essos. I cannot defy the queen and her court; I will not bring down her wrath on House Umber or the North. We have lost so many from wars and fighting,” she reaches to take his young face in her hands and shakes her head slowly at him. “I will not lose you as I have lost my father, and my brother, and your father’s sons who were your own brothers, Eddard.”

“Then I will go with you to court, Mother, and keep you safe,” he insists, and Sansa sees his innocent face and pure heart and can only make one choice.

“No,” Sansa insists passionately. “You will not, Eddard. You will not leave the North, and you will not go to court. My children will _never_ suffer what I was forced to suffer, I _swear_ it by the old gods.” Her eyes fill as she speaks though, because she knows that this means that she will needs leave her children. _My sweet babes, my lord’s children who were to be my life entire._

Her son’s face looks troubled now, and sad. “But…will you leave us, Mother?”

Sansa bites her lip in trepidation. “I- I fear that I have been given no choice, Eddard,” she replies hoarsely. She looks around at the faces of her family and all she sees is pity and the reflection of her own helplessness. “I- Pray forgive me, please: I fear that I have no appetite.” Then she stands and rushes from the solar. She passes Serena and Gretel who have washed their faces and braided their hair.

“Go to Lyanna please; I will sit with you after your supper,” she advised them hastily and continues away from the solar.

“Go ahead now; I will speak with your mother,” she hears Lord Jon tell them.

Sansa hurries towards her chamber and shuts the door before leaning against it.

“My lady? My lady?” he calls and knocks at the heavy door.

Sansa clasps her hand to her mouth and wishes that he would go away, as she wishes the whole world would go away and leave her in peace to live her life and raise her children and mourn her husband. _Why?_

“My lady…we needs speak; I will wait for you in your solar until you are ready,” he tells her now and she hears his footfalls as he walks away.

She knows that he will do as he says; she drops her hand and turns to open the door. He is standing before the hearth fire when she enters and he looks so concerned for her that she feels contrite for not trusting him.

“Forgive me-“ she begins.

“My lady, there is nothing to forgive: I have no doubt that your anguish is very great. I know well how you love your children. But…forgive me, my lady…but I believe I did warn you that this could happen,” he reminds her.

Sansa shakes her head though. “I do not understand, Lord Jon.”

“My father lived longer that I expected he would, and I am glad, my lady, that you had those years together,” he placates her when he sees her nearly recoil from his words, the same words he spoke when she first returned to Last Hearth after the war against the Others has ended. “It was the strain on his heart, the maester told me after…after they took him to the crypt. His own father succumbed to it as well: he did not live to see fifty years, and I imagine that I may succumb to it in time as well. But this congenital weakness was hastened in my father by his time beyond the Wall, and by the illness that followed.”

Sansa’s eyes fill as she stares at him dully. _What matter now how or why he died_ , she thinks: _he is gone and I am left alone at the mercy of another queen._

“My lady…permit me to write to her grace on your behalf, and ask her for more time. I will explain that you needs mourn my father, and have time with your young children. It may give her reason to reconsider her command…or it may well be for naught….as I have said, this is like to be the wish of some man or other,” he tells her with an almost-sneer. “Did I not tell you that some other man would want you; and that there would be no one to protect you? Prince Oberyn is at court. He is kin to the little queen, and sits on her council…as does Lord Tyrion, and other Southron lords. The young queen is known to marry off her more ardent suitors…but do not imagine that some have not asked for you, instead of her. You are a most desirable prize….my lady.”

“But have no riches, no lands, and no claim. I am not a princess anymore….and I have no wish to marry again; why should she make me do so against my will?”

“Did you wish to marry my father?” he asks her bluntly, a painful reminder of her then reluctance to wed and her fear of his father, and of her role in this life as a pawn to be moved around at will…a will not her own. “You are a beautiful woman, and high-born and still young: you cannot _but_ be expected to marry again. Your time in King’s Landing may well have been a torment for you, my lady; but it would seem that you left them with a most favourable impression…for good or for ill.”

……..

“You must understand, that this is a royal command…I cannot disobey the queen: that- that would be treason.”

Sansa is trying to explain to her children that she must leave them. Eddard stands stoically, though his chin trembles; but Serena is angry. Sansa can see the hardness is her small face and the tension in her slender body and her closed fists.

“I- I explained to you at Winterfell, Eddard, that there would be things you would needs do in life that you would not like but that you would needs do anyway…because it is your duty. You are old enough to know this as well Serena-“

“No! No, you will leave us…like Da left us,” her daughter shouts angrily, “that can’t be duty: it _can’t_!”

“Serena, your Da would never leave you. He did not want to die; he did not want to leave us: I know this because he told me. Serena, my sweet girl…my little bird…please understand that I am protecting you,” Sansa pleads to her desperately. “If I do not go…then they may come for you, for all of us. I am doing what I must do to keep you safe.”

Her daughter’s eyes well up with tears. “You’re going to _leave_ , and you’re not going to come back,” she insists again. “Eddard says the queen will make you marry another man and he will take you to his castle and you will never come back to us,” she sobs now.

Sansa is silent. She wishes that she could promise her children that she will return; but she know that it will not be able to decide her own fate. It will be in the hands of the queen, or whichever man to whom she is given: she will be someone’s property, to do with as he wishes. _Cersei was right: we are sold like horses to be ridden. This is how we are poisoned, by being treated as less than human._

“I- I am so sorry, my children. I would stay with you all the days of my life if I could, and I will come back to you if I can. I love you with all my heart.” She looks at her son, her daughter and her little ward, Gretel and sinks ot her knees to gather them in her arms. They all cling to her, and they are all in tears now. “I am sorry,” she whispers, “I am so very sorry.”

…….

“Please help me; I know that I have angered you greatly. ..but my children…my children have lost their father; must they lose their mother as well? Why must you punish me so? Have I not lost enough? Oh, when will you be satisfied that I am _sorry_? I am so very sorry for all that I have done-“

She stops and covers her face with her hands. The ancient weirwood stares emptily at her in the dusk of evening, vacant of any sympathy or help.

“Oh, why do I asks you?” she implores them in despair. “When have you ever heard or answered my prayers?” she dismisses the gods resentfully.

“What have I told you about bitterness, girl?” Hother demands to know now, and Sansa turns suddenly and rises from her knees from before the heart tree. “That only hurts _you_.” He comes to stand before her now and looks the weirwood up and down before reverently placing his hand on the trunk of the tree. Then he turns back to her.

“You may be a Stark, you might’ve been a princess, and you were the Lady of Last Hearth…but do you really believe the gods watch what you do and reward and punish you for it? Gods don’t do things to us; it’s others who so things to us but it’s the gods who guide us to do what’s right, and give us the strength to do it. That’s why they have roots that go deep: what’s right is set deep into the lives of us Northern folks; and the leaves sprout and fall and sprout again, just as good and bad come and go in life,” he finishes with a firm nod of certainty.

“Is it right to separate a mother from her children?” Sansa asks dully.

“’Course it’s not,” he affirms, “any more than it were right they took your father’s head, or burned your grandfather alive; but that weren’t the gods doing. Do you think that your family did some wrong that the gods punished them for it, or do you understand that it was others did wrong to them?”

“But how can the gods allow that?”

“I just _told_ you, girl: the gods don’t allow nor cause anything; they only give us the strength to bear what happens, and to go on.”

Sansa hangs her head in defeat. “I do not think that I can be strong anymore.”

“If you’re done being strong then you’re done living, girl: life needs you to be strong, and you have lived a lot already. Now you needs decide if you will go on living.”

“But then I must leave my children, and go to court…to Kings Landing and- and the Red Keep; I feel that I would almost rather die than return there again.”

“Well, then,,,” he begins.

“It is a royal command,” she tells him. “I cannot simply remain here, and defy the queen and her council. It would endanger all at Last Hearth.”

‘No, girl: you can’t stay either.”

“Then I must go,” she reasons.

Hother twists up his hard, gaunt face and shakes his head at her. “Come with me, girl,” he motions impatiently and stalks away from her.

Curious, Sansa follows him in the gathering dark despite his harsh talks and behaviour. She feels that he is the only person with whom she can speak without crying, because he will not indulge it. She stops with surprise to see that he is leading her to the crypt, and then she picks up her skirts and follows closely now. Hother takes a torch from the wall and walks along the rows of tombs until he reaches the Greatjon’s and stops. Sansa’s heart tightens and she feels even more lost.

“Why have you brought me here?” she asks desolately. “You said that I should not come and brood, that I should live my life…but now I shall have to live far from him and his memory as I will from my children.“

“Do you know how your brother was made King in the North?’ he interrupts her sharply.

She looks fondly on her husband’s grave. “My lord declared him so,” she replies.

“Aye, but do you know when and why?” He continues before she even has the chance to shake her head. “I weren’t there; but the lord and Smalljon told us the story many times. It were after your father was put to death,” he tells her bluntly, and Sansa winces to remember the horror of that day; but Hother goes on without noticing. “All those assembled felt there was only one course to follow: the lords of the North were telling your lord brother to declare the North for Renly, or to join with Stannis, to bend the knee to another and call him king; but the lord were having none of that. _Why shouldn’t we rule ourselves again_ , he asked them, and claimed his own king. He did what no one expected, made his own terms and changed the whole game right then and there,” he finishes.

“You’re telling me there is another way. Please, tell me what it is,” Sansa implores.

“If I knew, I’d tell you, girl. I don’t know; I’m just telling you that you got some other choice than the only two you see now…you just got to find it.”

Sansa looks forlornly at him: she had thought for a moment that he had the answer to her dilemma, that he would tell her how to stay with her children at Last Hearth without defying the queen. She looks back to her husband’s tomb. _Would you could protect me now, my love; would I were as strong as you._

“I…I told him once….I told my lord that he was more clever than he let others realize, and he told me that it is advantageous to let others underestimate you.”

“Well, there you go then: he had the right of it; now you just needs put that to use. They none of them know you, or do they?”

“Lord Tyrion may remember me; but I was a girl then. And Prince Oberyn,” she squirms inwardly to remember how he looked at her, “he saw me as- as someone he would bed, by plying me with silks and jewels,” she confesses.

Hother draws himself up in sneering indignation. “Then he don’t know you; even _I_ know that won’t win you, girl. Would’ve thought it once,” he admits and nods to her with grudging respect, “but that’s not who you are. You’re Northern, like your father was…like the lord was. Get your strength from that.”

…….

The weirwood tree is enormous and unfamiliar. Sansa needs look up to see the face: higher up, wider across and strange somehow; and all around is dark and vast, so that she does not know where she is.

_You’re of the North, Sansa; and you’re the North to me, and you’re strong though you’re soft and gentle…_

“My lord?’ she asks hopefully as she turns around, but then she is no longer before the strange weirwood but in the North tower, where she once swore that she would never return, and Lord Jon is there with his back to her as he gazes out a window onto the North and she hears her own voice speaking to him from long ago:

_We would have to run away, and leave Last Hearth…_

And then she is in the North, in a field covered in snow with a single tall tree from which a dead man swings by a length of braided cloth, but it is not the dead huntsman that she remembers anymore but  herself hanging from the branch and Sansa is so startled that she falls back onto the snow and gapes up at herself.

 _You could do it,_ she tells herself. _You could do it right now._

“No, I can’t: I love my children!” she cries out, horrified.

Cersei looks upon her as haughtily as a queen but her hair is silvery-blonde instead of golden and her eyes are not green but violet like amethysts.

_Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same._

Now her lord, her Greatjon is before her and smiling fondly at her and Sansa’s heart fills with love and she feels safe again to be with him.

_I never thought I would want to run away here with a lady…my own lady wife._

But then he is not before her, instead it is him tomb in the crypts before her and she shakes her head but a voice is telling her harshly:

_You’re Northern, like your father was…like the lord was. Get your strength from that._

_You’re of the North, Sansa…_

_We would have to run away…_

_You could do it…_

_Love is poison…_

_Poison..._

_…_ _do it…_

_… the North, Sansa…_

_Get your strength from that._

Sansa wakes with a violent start and her heart hammers in her chest and her breath comes is laboured gasps. She is tangled in her bed linens and her brow is damp with sweat. She takes deep breaths to steady herself until she is calm. The moonlight streams in her un-shuttered window and she can see that the Greatjon’s tunic has slipped from the bed onto the floor. She reaches for it now and holds it close to herself.

“I need your courage, and your cleverness… Give me your strength, my lord, for what I must do.”

Sansa is calm now, and resolved. She must be strong. She knows what she must do.


	66. Chapter 66

The Spring morning dawns with a clear blue sky and no wind. Sansa smiles faintly, and remembers her husband’s description of Long Lake and its reflection of the sky.

_I had never seen anything so clear blue, Sansa, until you slid down off your horse and looked up at me when you came to Last Hearth._

She can almost hear his voice, deep and sonorous and rumbling, speaking to her gently in their bedchamber. He had promised to take her to the lake in Summer to bathe in the waters; then he had carried her to their bed and let her touch him and please him. She smiles secretly now and feels her face flush.

“May the old gods watch over you, milady,” Berena tells her now as Sansa stands waiting for a stable boy to bring her horse to her in the yard. She turns to face her friend.

“Thank you, Berena; I- “ She feels her throat tighten and her eyes sting. “I cannot thank you enough, Berena,” she tells her feelingly. “You have cared for me, and for my children; and you have taught me so much… Please know that I have the very highest regard for you, and will be forever grateful for all that you have done for me at Last Hearth.”

“It were my pleasure to serve and help you, milady. I will pray to the gods for you to come back to us someday. Last Hearth’s where you belong. You were a fine Lady Umber, and everyone here loves you for all you did for us and for the late lord. It won’t be the same without you, milady,” the old woman does not cry but she presses her thin lips together and Sansa knows it is because she is overwhelmed. She puts her arms around her comfortingly.

“Please watch over my children when you still can, Berena,” Sansa whispers to her now. “They trust you and love you as I do; and Serena will need a woman’s help to…to understand…when she grows and flowers…if…if I am not here…” Her heart wrings in her chest and very nearly cuts off her breath that she must speak of it.

Berena whispers back her assurances: “I’ll look to her like she were my own, milady, because she’s _yours_.”

“And Gretel?”

“And the wildling girl as well, milady; she be part of House Umber now.”

“My lady,” Lord Jon calls now.

“Lord Umber,” Sansa replies when she turns to him. It is the first time she has addressed him this way and he nods his acknowledgement of her courtesy. “I thank you for helping with my…preparations.”

He nods again. “All has been arranged as we discussed, my lady: there is a ship sailing North now to take you to King’s Landing from Karhold, and my men will escort you and Serena and the wildling girl to visit your lady sister and to return your girls to Last Hearth after you have left.”

“Please remind them that my daughter has permission to stay with her aunt at Karhold for as long as she pleases; I think she and Gretel will benefit greatly from my sister Arya’s company when…when I am gone,” she tells him haltingly. “But she will doubtless wish to return in time: Last Hearth is their home.”

The Smalljon can’t help shaking his head in regret. “I wish there were some other way, my lady, but I fear I am at a loss to know what that other way could be. You are very brave to go where you are going. But never fear for your children, my lady: they are loved and shall be well looked after by all at Last Hearth.” He speaks firmly and sincerely and looks her straight in her eyes and she knows that he wants her to believe him. She does. She allows herself to touch him for the first time in years by placing a gloved hand on his arm and looking straight up at him.

“I do not doubt you, Lord Jon. I promise that I will do everything I can so as to be able to see them again.”

“I promise you the same, my lady,” he replies and puts his hand over hers for a brief moment. “Safe journey to you, my lady,” he says as he steps back now.

“Eddard,” she calls to her son now, “come embrace me again.”

Her son walks forward haltingly but opens his arms to her and she holds him close and breathes in the scent of his hair and the skin on his neck. “My sweet boy,” she croons, “I know that you are a young man now. You have been a man ever since your father named you so when we returned from Winterfell. He was so proud of you, just as I am; and I want you to always remember that day, and what I said to you…do you remember?”

“You said that you would always be my mother,” he tells her.

“Yes, Eddard, I will always be your mother…even though I am not here with you I will still be your mother. Wherever I am I will think of you, and love you, and miss you terribly…oh, you cannot know how much I shall miss you every day,” she breathes longingly, “and will want to see you and talk with you.” She strokes his auburn curls and looks into his face now and smiles. “You have the look of your father…despite your Tully hair that you have from me ; and you will soon grow as big and strong as he was…” she kisses his forehead briskly and stands up straight and raises his eyes to hers with her hand under his chin.

“You must stay here at Last Hearth, and greet the young men who will be wards of House Umber. They will be your friends for life: you will be like a brother to them, and they to you. This is how your father wished it to be,” she reminds him. “You are the son of Lord Jon Umber, called the Greatjon, who raised you and loved you and so you must do him proud, Eddard.”

“I will, Mother…I promise,” he tells her and she sees his eyes shine with tears that he will not let fall, not in the yard before other men. He sets his jaw tightly instead.

“Remember now: whatever they should say about me… I will _always_ be your mother. You _must_ believe that.”

Her son nods bravely now, and she kisses him one last time before turning to all who have gathered in the yard to see her off. She takes a deep breath now before speaking to them.

“I thank you all… for seeing me off, and for everything you have done: for making my life at Last Heath with my lord and children the happiest-“ she cuts herself short now for fear that she will lose her composure.  They look at her sadly: the women wring their hands helplessly, and the men look grim and troubled. They are sorry to see her leave but also angry that she has been called away from them and from her children to serve in Kings Landing, she knows. “I shall never forget you,” she tells them from her heart.

“M’lady,” they all murmur respectfully and curtsey and bow their heads now. Some women begin to weep and so Sansa must turn away from them.

“Serena, Gretel…are you ready?” Her daughter and her ward stand together holding hands. They look wary: Gretel had not left Last Hearth in years, since she first came to them, and Serena does not remember travelling to Winterfell and so feels that she is leaving home for the first time. “You will like my lady sister, both of you will,” she encourages them now, “she is very brave and strong: a true Northerner. She has twins sons who are your cousins; and you will see her direwolf Nymeria as well.”

“Permit me, my lady,” the gray-bearded leader of the garrison offers his hand to help her mount her horse. As she does, her daughter and Gretel are helped into the saddles of their ponies. Lord Jon speaks again to all assembled.

“My lord father once told me that he felt very fortunate that to have had you in his life, my lady; and I am certain that I speak for all at Last Hearth when I say that we all feel the same as my late father did.”

There is a chorus of ayes and firmly nodding heads, and Sansa feels the tears behind her eyes so that she cannot reply. She bows her head a moment and then gives a nod to the ginger-haired soldier who will lead them to Karhold.

“Open gates!” he shouts.

The great wooden gates open with lumbering creaks and groans and their party heads out at a walk. Sansa keeps her eyes fixed on the way ahead, and she does not permit herself to look back, even when she hears the gates shut closed behind them. They follow the path to towards the Last River, and Sansa remembers how Lord Jon had taken her riding out to show her the Umbers lands and she shuts her eyes to the memory.

_Did it all start then, so long ago? Did I choose my fate then as I do now? Will it end any better, or do I take the wrong path again? Would that I could know before I begin._

She knows that her affair with her good-son was not the cause of the war with the Others, the war that took her brother and king and weakened and shortened the life of her Greatjon and left her without protection, but she does blame her behavior for what she still feels is the greatest loss of her life.

_Had I not fell when I left the North tower, I may have had more children with my lord._

Sansa has never confessed to anyone, not even to Berena, that her continuing interest in midwifery was largely born of her desire to understand if she could possibly conceive again or if she were truly barren; but she had only learned that her condition could not be decisively proven, and so she could not even claim to be infertile if the queen sought to betroth her to her kinsman and councilor, Prince Oberyn, or worse, to Lord Tyrion Lannister. She could only hope that failing to quicken again after nigh six years would give any suitor pause to reconsider her as a potential wife; but even then she could be wed instead to a widower who had heirs already, a man such as Lord Willas…or a man like Walder Frey.

The Frey patriarch had sought to ingratiate himself to the new queen when Robb had died and his daughter Roslin had lost her own title of Queen in the North. He had offered many of his sons and daughters to the Targaryen girl at court, both for marriages and as wards to noble houses. His eighth wife had died in childbed, and so to take and ninth wife: a high-born Stark, young and pretty, with no risk of adding to his already prodigious brood of offspring could be a desirable match for him…and one that makes Sansa’s skin crawl so badly that she shudders violently and needs to shift in her saddle and steady her mare.

“Are you cold, milady?” A soldier asks her now. “Little matter though, what: you’ll be warm enough down South,” he jests.

The ginger-haired soldier glances sharply at him, and then nods reassuringly to Sansa. He had been outspokenly offended on her behalf that she should have been called to Kings Landing. Ever loyal to the Umbers, he felt the Greatjon’s loss of two sons beyond the Wall more than paid his family’s debt of fealty to the new queen.

“Takin’ a widow and mother from ‘er young’uns: that’ll _lose_ her fealty in th’North, iffen ye were t’ask me,” he had grumbled and the older garrison leader had shushed him:

“Mind wha’ ye say where ye can be heard, boy: we dunno who’s spyin’ fer th’dragon queen or her spider. Not all mens be loyal; not when there’s coin t’be had.”

The fine weather holds for the whole of their trip and their progress is steady, but with two young girls on ponies it takes more than a sennight to reach Karhold. Arya and her family welcome them all warmly and they enjoy a fortnight together getting re-acquainted. Sansa is delighted with her twin nephews: Rickard and Robb, and Serena and Gretel explore and play in the unfamiliar castle when torrential Spring rains set in for five straight days and nights. But it is the dark cloud of Sansa’s eventual departure that hangs over all of them, and the Karstarks are clearly uncomfortable and even somewhat disapproving that Sansa has firmly made up her mind about her plans.

“Why did you not let Lord Jon or Bran petition Daenerys on your behalf, Sansa? You’re a Stark and an Umber, and you belong in the North.”

“That is likely to be the very reason that she wants me at court, Arya; and therefore she will be unlikely to cede to any request for reconsideration. If I go to then I make it unequivocal that she has rights to command those in the North as her subjects as surely as those from any other region in Westeros, and therefore no other Northern lord will feel that he may refuse her orders, even for good reason. And if I defy her command, then I give her and her council reason to brand the Northerners rebels against the throne, so she may then feel justified in demanding more concessions under threat of attack, by her armies _and_ her dragons.”

“Then she is as much a bitch as Cersei ever was,” Arya snaps angrily and Nymeria, lying at her feet, raises her great head with alertness.

“But do you not see that this would endanger all of us: not just the Umbers but the Starks and their title of warden and mayhaps even our claim to Winterfell if small council should seek to install another, more loyal house in our stead.”

“Then it would mean war: the North will _never_ accept another house in Winterfell!”

“And if she burns Winterfell to the ground with her dragons?” Sansa shakes her head. “I will not be responsible for bringing such wroth on Winterfell, or the North.” She sighs now and smiles wryly to see her sister’s stubborn expression. “You are so fierce, Arya; I wonder if having Lady with me all these years might have made me stronger…”

“You are strong as well, Sansa. It was your notion to take Theon’s head and that of his bastard friend: the she-wolves of Winterfell, remember? Don’t let them take that from you.”

“Though they would seemingly take everything else from me,” Sansa mourns sadly and then turns toward the shuttered window. “I think the rain has stopped.”

…….

That night it is Sansa and not a maid who readies her girls for bed. She helps to wash their hands and faces, and to rinse their teeth and to don their bedgowns. Then she unplaits their braids and brushes their hair: first little Gretel, and then her little bird daughter, Serena.

“My mother would brush my hair when I was a girl,” she tells her fondly. “Yours is as thick and soft and shiny, but you have your father’s brown hair… You are like him in other ways, Serena: you have his unguarded and generous heart. Will you promise me to watch over Gretel when I am gone? Your father and I promised the wildling Tormund that we would keep her safe, and when she choose to stay with us as our ward we have seen to it that she has been treated as one of our own. I want you to always remember that she lives under the protection of the Umbers, and to remind anyone that would treat her different. “

“I promise, Mama. I will keep Gretel safe with me, and so will Eddard and Smalljon and Lyanna.”

Sansa takes her daughter’s sweet face in her hands and smiles proudly. “I know you will: you are your father’s little Umber girl. Gods be good, how he loved you, my little bird; and he cared for you, Gretel. I hope that you know that,” she tells her and the little girl nods obediently. “Good. Come sit with me now,” she tells them and they curl up on the bed together with Sansa between them and she wraps her slender arms around her girls.

“My sweet, lovely girls…when you wake tomorrow, I shall be gone,” she tells them softly, “not because I want to leave, but because I must. It will be safer for you if I am gone; but know that I will think of you every day and love you with all my heart even when I am not with you. I pray that knowing you are loved will give you strength and comfort. I am so proud of both of you,” she squeezes them tight and then kisses each of them on top of their head. “Sleep now and I will sing for you.”

As Sansa begins to sing softly, she can hear her girls sniffle and feels them hold her tighter. She shuts her eyes and lets her own tears fall though she continues to sign until they are asleep. When she is finished shedding her own tears, she slips away quietly and shuts the door gently behind her before returning to her own chamber. Arya waits there for her.

“A man from our garrison returned after supper: Harrion says the ship has almost reached the coast. They will be waiting for you to arrive within a day or two.”

“Will he dispatch a soldier to bring them the message, or will he bring it himself?”

“He will likely send a soldier from the garrison; unless you want to send one of Umber men. That young red-haired soldier seems very loyal to you: he was a good choice to bring you here…he might be the best one to deliver the news to the ship’s captain,” Arya ventures.

Sansa nods after a moment. “Yes, but with a Karstark man to escort him as well. I think it would be best if both houses be represented.”

The castle is still at this hour and Sansa’s chamber is so quiet that the flickering of the candle flame can be heard as Arya stares at her for a long time. “I wish you did not feel that you need to do this, Sansa.”

Sansa sighs heavily: she has thought her situation over repeatedly and concluded that she has no better choice but the one she is making.

“It is the only way, Arya. I…I cannot bring myself to return to court, to Kings Landing. I would rather die. And I will not marry another man for alliance or duty; I was fortunate once, but I may not be so fortunate again; and I simply could not bear it. Do you know what Cersei once told me? That love was poison, a sweet poison but that it would kill me all the same. I think…I think that having known love as I have, with my husband and my children, the loss of it and the sadness of not having it anymore  is the poisonous part: the rest of your life seems like endless, interminable sadness without it…it eats away at you until you are dead inside. That is how it poisons you, and that is how it kills you.”

She raises her eyes to look at her sister and they say nothing for some moments. Then Sansa rises and walks to the dressing table and opens a drawer to retrieve a bottle that she has hidden there. She looks at the dark glass bottle and then pulls the cork that stoppers it.

“Will you help me, Arya?”

Arya stands and walks to her and takes her free hand and squeezes it tightly.

“Of course I will, Sansa… _valar morghulis,”_ she intones seriously.

 _“_ Yes, _valar morghulis.”_


	67. Chapter 67

The queen drums her jeweled fingers on the marble tabletop. She then heaves a sign of exasperation and turns to the leader of her Unsullied.

“Grey Worm, go and find him. Bring him here at the point of your spear if you must.”

The captain of the Unsullied bows his head. “I go now, my queen.”

But before he can leave the council room, the door opens and the small man waddles in at his slow pace.

“Forgive me, your Grace, and my lords: there was a raven-“ he begins somberly.

“ _Dark wings, dark words_ is that the saying, my lord Hand?”

“It is, your Grace,” he tells her grimly and pauses.

“Well,” Daenerys tells him and then glances to her left as she sees Lord Varys enter the chamber from behind her, padding in silently in soft slippers. He bows graciously.

Tyrion Lannister swallows hard and looks down to the scroll he carries. “The Lady Sansa Umber is dead, your Grace.”

She turns to look at her late brother Prince Rhaegar’s good-brother, Prince Oberyn who suddenly sits up attentively.

“Dead? But how?’

“Poison, your Grace; she died at her own hand, it would seem.”

“Can this be true? It is such a terrible waste,” Prince Oberyn shakes his head sadly. “So much beauty lost to the world.”

“Yes, to the world…and to my court,” Daenerys tells him. “How is it possible that this should have happened…Lord Varys?”

“I cannot say, your Grace: Lord Umber arranged for a ship to bring Lady Sansa from Karhold to Kings Landing, but then soldiers from Last Hearth and Karhold met the ship and told the captain that she was dead. My spies report that they heard Lady Sansa’s daughter was wild with grief and her little wildling ward hid for some time before she could be found.  At Winterfell, her family spends their days in their godswood.”

“How would she have obtained poison? Not from a maester, surely.”

He hesitates slightly. “Apparently, the Dowager Lady Umber was well-versed in herblore, and there are deep forests around the Last Hearth and Karhold. Whatever poison it was…it was a horrible end, your Grace. They say the sheet that she lay on was all blackened: rot must have set it very quickly. Only her bones will be returned for burial.”

The queen shuts her eyes and wrinkles her nose. “That is quite enough detail, Lord Varys. Well, what is your council now: do we call the daughter to court, or the son?”

“Your Grace…If I may? I fear this would not be wise: the Northerners will blame Lady Sansa’s death on her summons to court,” Varys advises her. “It is said that she was heartbroken to leave her children…and the Last Hearth; she reputedly spent inordinate time in the crypt at the grave of her late lord…the Greatjon.”

“But he was an old man, you said,” the queen accuses Tyrion. “My lord Hand, you said this woman would be pleased to leave the wilds of the far North and come to court. We need more Northerners in the capitol to placate those from other regions. Now I learn that your counsel, _and_ my kinsman’s,” she glances significantly at Prince Oberyn, “could turn the Northerners against me.”

Lord Tyrion smirks and tosses the scroll on the table. “I remember Lady Sansa was a great romantic, fond of silks and songs and chivalry and handsome knights. I truly believed that she would welcome the chance to return to court. This…this was the sort of misguided and over-emotional gesture one would have expected of her as a young girl; it would appear that she had not grown up very much, nor learned anything of real life.”

“The Northerners have always been a strange, primitive lot, your Grace,” Varys offers now, “given to superstitions and dark moods and violent tempers. I remember well her late father’s tendency to brood and his worship of ancient trees… Might I suggest instead: Robb Stark has two daughters-“

“No,” the queen rejects the suggestion firmly. “Their mother is a Frey, and we have enough Freys,” she rules, “more than enough. And they were once princesses: we do not want to give other nobles ideas of raising them again with their sons as their consorts. They will stay in Winterfell and wed in the North.”

“That is wise, your Grace; after all, nothing good has ever come of Starks coming South…”

…….

Dusk has fallen when they see their intended destination in the distance. Their horses’ hooves crunch in the snow and then still as they stop.

“Oakenshield ahead,” Maege Mormont announces.

Alysane Mormont puts her hand over her sword hilt when she sees a rider approach, a big man dressed in furs who puts his hands up to show that he means no harm. He nods as he reins his mount.

“I am Torwynd, son of Tormund,” he tells them. “You are the Bear women? My father waits with the Lord Commander o’ the Crows. Follow me.”

Instead of the castle on the Wall, they are led to a nearby croft. Firelight can be seen from a window and the smell of smoke from a wood fire drifts through the air, promising warmth and shelter. Other men emerge to help them dismount and lead their horses into the rustic stable. There are several saddled horses tied up outside the small cottage. The leader of the wildlings stands in the doorway.

“Come inside now, and get warm. You’re safe here but no sense taking chances. I bet you weren’t fixing to lay eyes on old Tormond Tall-talker again, har!” he exults enthusiastically. “Here’s the Lord Crow to greet you proper!”

Jon Snow steps forward cautiously to address a tall figure beneath a dark hooded cloak.

 “Sansa?”

She lifts her head to look at him, then pushes her hood back.

“Jon,” she breathes with relief. It is so sweet to see him again; but he is looking at her hair with wide eyes.

“Well,” he says finally, “I guess there’s more than one way to take the black…”

Sansa self-consciously runs a hand down the braid over her shoulder. “I thought it best to darken my hair…in case we should be seen. Arya helped me. I fear we made a terrible mess...it was all over the bedlinens.” She tries to smile but fails.

“I’m sorry, Sansa. I’m sorry that you had to leave your children; but we’ll help you as best we can. There’s no one in the entire North that wants to see you have to return to Kings Landing… still, it’s best that you remain hidden, even up here.”

“Har, all the help you and your lord and Lord Stark arranged mean that wagon-loads of supplies pass through here up the Kingsroad and from Eastwatch…so we gets our share of kneelers up here,” Tormund tells her, then he smiles almost triumphantly. “Told you I’d not be forgetting all you did for us, didn’t I? Har!”

“Yes, Lord Tormund… you did indeed,” Sansa replies. “But please accept my gratitude-“

He waves a big hand dismissively. “You can never owe me or mine what we owe you, sweet lady; so no more o’ that, har! I’m only sorry you and your lord never had chance to visit me at my seat, so that I could repay you. Good man, the Greatjon,” he tells her.

Sansa can only nod.

“Come sit then,” a big wilding woman tells them, “You must be tired and hungry after your journey.”

Sansa sits at the wooden table with Alysane and Maege Mormont who have brought her to the Gift from Karhold. As they eat the simple fare before them, they tells Jon the story of how the women left Last Hearth to return to Bear Island after Sansa had left, but then left the Kingsroad to travel through the woods to Karhold and wait for Sansa to be brought out to them from the castle at night by Harrion.

“He brought me out a side gate, near the kitchen, where they were waiting for me in the nearby woods.”

“And were you dressed like that?” Jon asks archly.

Sansa looks down to her dirty breeches and roughspun wool tunic over a heavy shirt and her leather boots and nods timidly.

“No wonder no one knew you then,” he cannot help jesting. “Forgive me, Sansa: I know that you have had a long and hard journey here. How are your children? You must miss them.”

She nods again and bites her lip. “I miss them terribly. They knew of course, just as Bran and Rickon and Mother will soon know…I had insisted that they know; my children have already lost their father and so I could not bear to have them think that they had lost me as well, as least not forever…I hope,“ she breaks suddenly to compose herself again. “They were told that they would needs pretend, though we were all of us unhappy enough just to be separated that grief came easily enough.” She drops her head in her hands now and almost sobs. “Oh gods, Jon, it is unbearable to be apart from them. Have I done the right thing? Please tell me that I have,” she laments.

“I’m sure you have, Sansa,” he assures her haltingly. We’ll make it right for you…somehow; but it may be some time before you will be able to see them again…” he furrows his brow when she raises tearful eyes to him. “To be safe, Sansa; then Tormund can invite Lord Umber to visit with them, or they can go to the Thenns with Arya and her lord to visit Lady Alys. We’ll find a way, Sansa: I promise. But for now, we need to keep you hidden. You can’t stay too close to the Wall: there’s men from all over the seven kingdoms in the Watch, and some that may see a chance at a pardon for the crimes that brought them here. I thought to send you to across the Narrow Sea for a while but-“

“Too dangerous,” a long-forgotten voice rasps firmly from deep in the darkest corner of the small room inside cottage.

Sansa jumps and turns suddenly. _No, it cannot be…_

He stands to his full height as he walks closer into the firelight and he smirks down at her looking up at him in astonishment.

“Do I _still_ frighten you, girl? Might be I don’t. Least you can look at me straight in the face now,” he mocks.

He is the same, but not. The scars are the same, and his dark hair is still brushed forward to cover his burned scalp and ear; but the grey eyes are not as hard, nor are they bloodshot, and his expression while mocking is not so fierce and angry as she remembers. He is no longer hateful, or at least he does not appear to be.

Sansa gulps and braces herself on the back of her chair to stand shakily. “S-Sandor Clegane, I- I- Forgive me…I never expected…I had never thought to see you again. But I am glad, because I hadn’t the chance to thank you…for saving me, and for standing guard the night the Red Keep fell to Lord Renly…so long ago now. I owe you my life,” she tells him hoarsely, “and I have not forgotten.”

He scoffs at that. “You already thanked me, little bird: in the throne room when you spoke for me and asked them to spare my life…glad it worked that time,” he tells her, ”though it got me exiled, but it had to be better than losing my head alongside those cunts in their white cloaks who beat you. Well, I’ll spare you the loss of your life again when I tell you that you can’t go to Essos. I told the Lord Commander,” he gestures to Jon, “there’s sickness coming, could be it’s already there but they don’t know it yet; but it will be coming and it will be bad. Near all the sellswords that I recruited for the Night’s Watch on behalf of your lord brother were fleeing the East because of the pale mare. It’s been spreading from the East from as far as Yunkai and Meereen; and lords in Pentos and Braavos and the rest won’t hire soldiers from there for fear they’re carrying it with them. They’ll shut their city gates to them soon enough, but by then it will already be too late. You were right not to go to Kings Landing,” he tells Sansa now, “you can be assured of that: port cities will be the first places it turns up in Westeros, especially the Southron ones,” he explains to them all.

“What is this _pale mare_?” Maege Mormont asks him indignantly.

“Bloody flux,” he replies shortly, looking her up and down in her breeches, mail and swordbelt. “Makes you shit yourself to death,” he adds.

“Aye, I’ve known it to spread through army camps: usually from rotten food or from corpses fouling the water,” the She-bear acknowledges.

“Whatever bloody caused it, it’s spread far and wiped out near whole armies and some cities as well. Might be it’s a kind they’ve not seen before, but it’s killing near all in its path.”

“Flux can be treated with boiled oak leaves, or a tincture of blackthorn bark and berries,” Sansa tells them, and they all turns to stare at her. Finally Sandor Clegane throws his head back and laughs: a harsh sound like steel on stone that makes her shiver to remember.

“Now there’s something I’ll wager your septa never taught you to say, little bird,” he mocks her again.

“Is she a woods-witch?” the wildling woman asks with guarded curiosity.

“I- I have studied herblore,” Sansa replies, embarrassed. When no one says anything, she continues: “And midwifery.” She notices something familiar about the older woman now who is looking at her appraisingly. Finally the wildling steps forward and speaks to Sansa directly:

“You and I are kin…through your late lord: he was my cousin-“ But before she can finish speaking, Sansa gasps in sudden realization.

“You are Uncle Mors’ daughter! I –I see the resemblance…you’re an Umber.”

“Aye, by birth,” she concedes, “but I’ve not been an Umber for many years now. Still….Tormund thought it best to bring you to me. I needed to learn to live among the wildlings; and now so will you, Lady Sansa.”

“Please call me Sansa, I-“

“Best not to use your name either, Sansa,” Jon warns her. “You’ll needs chose another for now.”

She does not need think long because she remembers the Greatjon speaking in her ear. “Arrana,” she tells them, and she sees Jon’s mouth lift on one side: a wry half-smile. Like Serena, Arrana had been the name of a Stark girl who had married an Umber lord. They both remember their lessons of House Stark from Maester Luwin.

“My wildling husband gave me the name Heather and that is what I now call myself, Arrana,” the woman tells her.

“Heather,” Sansa repeats respectfully. She feels grateful and comforted to be with someone of Umber blood, who knew her Greatjon. “My- my lord spoke of you…and I know that he deeply regretted your loss to his uncle and to Last Hearth,” she says as she remembers all that Berena had told her of her abduction as a young girl.

Heather nods her acknowledgement. “He told me so when I saw him again… Would my father could have been so welcoming but he couldn’t forgive me; but for the Greatjon’s sake I am happy to help you. You will stay with me and my son’s family until we can find you another home, closer to forests or hills and far from roads. We’ll need to find a way to bring you food and supplies,” the woman Heather ventures.

“I’ll bring them to her,” Sandor Clegane announces with finality.

“You, Clegane?” Jon asks him with surprise now.

“Why not? Don’t think I’m going back to Braavos or Pentos with the sickness coming. Fuck that, I’ll stay here to watch over the little bird…I expect there’s little chance in seven hells you know to use that dagger you’re wearing on your hip, girl; and I’m as good a man as any to protect the high-born. Been doing it for most of my life.“

Sansa lifts her chin and squares her shoulders now. “I am no longer a girl, Sandor Clegane: I have been a wife and mother and the lady of a castle for nigh ten years and am now a widow. I have borne two children and lost one. I-“  _I have betrayed a man and taken a man’s head and killed a man who would have killed me_ , she thinks but she has also fled the queen’s summons to court and needed to entrust her children’s care to her family and to servants. She does not know how to live alone and she does not know how to fight; but he does.

 _I could keep you safe_ , he had rasped. _They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them._

She looks him straight in the face as he had said she should that night, the night the Blackwater had burned and he had protected her.

“You…you once told me that if I could not protect myself that I should die and get out of the way of those who can… Well, I have died…” she says wryly, “because I could not protect myself…and so I accept your offer of protection, of sharp steel and strong arms, Sandor Clegane, and I am again grateful,” she tells him humbly.

He gazes at her steadily, and she sees that he is remembering as well; then he bows his head to her with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“With your skills, we could use a man like you in the Night’s Watch, Clegane; Tormund can find men to guard my sister,” Jon offers.

“I’ll not take your vows; and more than I was willing to take a knight’s vows. Besides, I never rightly asked to return to Westeros…might be your dragon queen will come for me as well. Best I get out of the way, and stay out of sight too,” he rasps firmly.

“Now that’s decided, we’ll needs return to Bear Island. We’ll pass through the mountains on our way west and can ask among the clans for a place for you to live,” Maege Mormont tells Sansa now. “The Flints are your father’s kin; they’ll be willing to shelter you,” she states. “We’ll start with them. We’ll have them send someone for you here when they’ve found you a place.”

Sansa shakes her head now. If she is not to stay with the wildlings or to flee to Essos, then she knows exactly where she would wish to be. She thinks of the Umber hunting cottage, far off the Kingsroad and deep in the forests of what is still Umber lands. It is safe and secluded and only two days ride from her children. It was her Greatjon’s favourite place in the world and where he was happiest, he had told her.

_“I never thought I would want to run away here with a lady…my own lady wife, but I wanted it to be just us, Sansa.”_

It will not be just the two of them, but it will be her new home. She has run away, but he will still be with her and she will be safe. She will have Jon send word to Lord Jon somehow; and Sandor Clegane will once again protect her. She almost smiles, but is more from relief.

“You are kind to offer, Maege, and I thank you for all that you have done for me; but it is not necessary…you see, I already know of a place to live.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: The remedies that Sansa mentions are actually for dysentery and not entirely accurate but she is more read in herblore than practiced at this point.
> 
> The name Heather for Uncle Mors’ daughter is based on the names of wildling spearwives in ADWD who all have names based on plants: Willow, Rowan, Myrtle; and so I kept with the practice for her.


	68. Chapter 68

The dusting of Summer snow that had fallen overnight has melted away but the grass is still damp despite the midday sun. Sansa’s feet are cold and the hem of her skirt is dark with wet as she carries her woven basket of herbs and berries back home. She ventures further from the cottage than she ever did now, though she still wears her hood up over her darkened hair. Sandor agreed that it was safe provided she went further into the woods and never towards the road. There she found she could collect stinging nettles and willow bark, pick blackberries and tiny wild strawberries; and she is delighted to have discovered a patch of chamomile for tea and wild thyme for their cooking pot.

She is close enough now to see the morning’s washing flapping in the breeze on the hempen line that runs between two posts, and to hear the squabbling cacophony that means that Ivy is feeding the chickens. When she walks out of the trees and into the clearing, she is surprised as always to see how their little world has grown since they first arrived at the hunting cottage.

Lord Jon has kept his father’s promise and continues to send regular shipments of goods to the wildlings. Tormund then sends supplies to Sansa at the cottage when he distributes shares among villages and crofts in the Gift; and the young wildling men who bring them sacks of barley and dried pease and oats for the horses always stay to assist with any heavy labour. They helped Sandor to chop down trees and build a cabin for himself so that he no longer needed to sleep in the stable. They stayed to assemble the chicken coop when they brought them hens and chicks; and another time, after a heavy Summer storm, they helped Sandor to repair the leaky roof and loose shutters of the hunting cottage that Sansa had first shared with Heather, who had returned to her family when her son’s wife died in childbed, and now shares with Ivy.

“Have you gathered eggs yet, Ivy?” she asks the girl now.

Not yet, Lady Gr-“ she corrects herself, “I mean: Arrana.”

Sansa smiles gently. “You will get used to it in time, Ivy; I have. I will gather the eggs now, and then we should pull weeds from the garden while it is so bright.” She adjusts her basket on her arm and turns to the henhouse.

Sandor had cleared and turned over a patch of earth so that Sansa and Heather could plant root vegetables on the edge of the clearing. He does not need to track and lay traps for rabbits so far in the woods anymore since many are caught while trying to dig up Sansa’s carrots; and so the hares and the carrots and the herbs she gathers end up in the stew pot. She no longer has need of the trappings and talents of a high-born lady: well-bred courtesies and running a great keep are no longer her lot. Sansa relies now on the skills taught to her by her Umber kin by marriage, the wildling woman Heather, who taught her to skin rabbits, pluck pullets and scale fish for cooking, to plant and gather vegetables, and to sweep bare floors and scour pots. She knows to weave baskets from reeds and willow branches; and though she still sews, it is to make covers for mattresses stuffed with straw and dried heather or to mend and patch breeches and cloaks and skirts caught on branches or nails. She wears an apron over her simple dresses, and sturdy laced boots on her feet. Her life is not what it once was: it is simpler, and she must work hard; but she finds that constant occupation keep her from brooding too much on her fate and her losses, and physical exhaustion makes her sleep more soundly than she had since she was widowed.

They see few people but for the wildlings who deliver their goods and the ginger-haired soldier from Last Hearth who, nearly every four moons, rides to bring her saddlebags filled with gifts from Lyanna: threads and needles, lengths of rough spun linen or wool, combs or stockings, and cakes of soap. Hidden away among these gifts are scrolls with messages from her children, telling her that they love her and miss her. Sansa has no ink or scrolls with which to reply, and the soldier tells her it is too great a risk for there to be messages in her hand so she bids him give her children every assurance of her steadfast love and great heartache that they should remain separated. Then, when he is gone, she hides in the woods behind the stable to clutch their written words to her heart and weep helplessly. That is where Sandor once found her.

She looked up when she sensed his presence and saw that he was staring at her with a furrowed brow and hard eyes.

“F-forgive me, I- I do so miss my children; and I cannot even send them words in reply…” she whispered hoarsely.

“What do they write you? Are they angry?” he rasped shortly.

“No…they write that they love me, and that they miss me,” she replied softly as her tears welled up again. “I- I am their mother…I should be with them.”

“Lots of things _should_ be, but they aren’t: you know that as well as anyone…if not better,” he told her bluntly.

“Y-yes,” she acknowledged sadly, “but I sometimes cannot help feeling that I am cursed to lose or leave everyone that I love.” She looked up at him again and was met with his stony countenance and she remembered what he had once told her of his own unhappy life. But before she could apologize again, his mouth had twitched and he reached out uncertainly to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. The gesture was so unlike the man she had once known that she had blinked in surprise and then begun to cry anew. Unnerved, he nevertheless stepped towards her and Sansa had instinctively leaned in to rest her head on his chest. He stood stock-still for a long moment, with his hands hanging at his sides, until she felt him pat her back awkwardly before putting his arms around her.

“You’re alright, little bird…it will be alright,” he told her quietly and she felt something brush the top of her head. Then he stood back suddenly and nodded stiffly. “I’m going fishing…in the stream,” he had added unnecessarily as he took several more steps backward before turning and walking away and leaving her alone and confused. It was only the second time he had called her _little bird_ since they had met again.

He had been helpful though distant since they had been in the woods, and had consulted with Heather when he needed more than with Sansa. He had occupied himself with reconnoitering their territory, hunting for food and chopping wood and building such things as he could. He ate their simple fare with them in the cottage before returning to the stables and then to his cabin at night or into the woods by day. Now he stayed closer to the clearing after the wildling woman had left and young Ivy had replaced her to help Sansa. Tormund had sent her because he knew how much she admired Lady Greatjon; and like all the wildlings, Ivy respected Sandor on sight for his size and looked him straight in his face, believing his scars to be a sign of his innate strength and ferocity. And so he lingered longer at table and answered most of the wildling girl’s questions and in time asked her in turn about her life and the free folk. But he never asked Sansa about her own life after he had left Westeros, that is, until the night Ivy mentioned the Greatjon.

“Did _you_ know him?” Ivy had asked Sandor.

He sniffed. “Knew _of_ him,” he answered shortly. “Fought on Pyke at the time of the Greyjoy rebellion. No missing a man that size. Good fighter,” he attested firmly without looking at Sansa.

“ _I_ knew him. He was a good man,” Ivy told him. “Remember, Lady…Arrana, how he carried Gretel when she fell asleep in the hall? That was the night everyone danced.”

“I remember, Ivy,” Sansa had replied hollowly. “Will you please fetch water from the well? I needs wash up after our meal.” Sandor had sat picking at his second helping until the girl had gone and then asked her levelly in his rasping voice:

“Was he good to you?”

“Yes,” she had answered unhesitatingly in a voice filled with longing, “and I loved him…I- I love him still.”

He had nodded once, slowly. “Good.” He finished his stew then, in two big mouthfuls, and rose to leave.

Sansa does not know why she remembers these times today, here in the henhouse while she is gathering eggs. Mayhaps it is because she means to cook them for their midday meal with watercress that she has picked from the bank of the stream. Sandor dislikes watercress, alternately calling it pond scum or food for rabbits; and yet she knows that he will eat what is set in front of him. She thinks that she understands: sometimes she wakes from dreaming of haunches of seasoned lamb or beef, and capons roasted with herbs and honey, of Arbor wines and soft cheeses, and of lemon cakes. More often she dreams of her Greatjon, and wakes flushed with yearning and tearful from grief; or she dreams of her children calling, or worse: crying for her. Sansa is still a lady, though she may no longer live as one; but at these times she silently curses the queen and her council for taking her from her life and for making her choose to hide away from the world with dyed hair and a false name as though she were a murderess.

She is about to call Ivy and Sandor in to eat when the wildling girl suddenly bursts in through the door of their cottage.

“Riders coming, Lady Greatjon! Sandor says to stay inside: he goes to meet them,” she warns her with agitation. Both of them rush to their beds to find the daggers they keep beneath their mattresses. Then they crouch on either side of the door and wait. Sansa prays that it should be wildlings and not hunters asking for shelter for the night, or, gods forbid, soldiers from Kings Landing come to take her forcibly to court or to a black cell like her father.

There are voices outside and then footsteps towards the cottage before Sandor calls for Ivy. The girl hides her dagger by tucking it into the back of her breeches and sticks her head out the door and then walks out. Not a moment later does Sandor open the door and look behind it for her.

“Best you come out now,” he rasps flatly. “You can leave the dagger,” he adds.

Feeling curious but still guarded, Sansa opens the door of the cottage and steps out into the bright sunlight. She needs hold up her hand to shade her eyes but once they adjust, she sees horses and two tall men helping other riders dismount. When the first two figures step out from behind the horses Sansa’s heart stops and then leaps into her throat. With an incoherent cry, she runs to them with wide open arms.

“Eddard! Serena!” They are in her arms and she is holding them close, laughing and crying and kissing their faces and the tops of their heads as they lean in to her and hug her tightly. They are weeping as well, crying _Mama_ and _Mother_ as they cling to her and their hands grip her skirts and her sleeves and her neck and her long braid. When she pulls her head back to look at them, she realizes that they have all sunk to their knees in the clearing and she laughs again but does not wipe away her tears of happiness because she would needs let go of them and she cannot bring herself to do so. Now over their heads she sees Uncle Hother, and next to him is little Gretel.

“Gretel,” she calls to her gently, “will you come embrace me too?”

When she runs to join them, Sansa kisses her as well and looks at all of them in turn.

“Oh, my children…look at you,” she breathes incredulously. “Are you truly here with me? I fear that I must be dreaming…”

“It’s no dream, girl: they’re real enough. ‘Been riding with them for days, so I know,” Hother states bluntly.

“Uncle Hother,” Sansa stands now, still holding her children’s hands. “How can I ever thank you for bringing them to me-“ she breaks off now. “Is- is it safe?” she asks him now.

“It is and it isn’t,” he answers abruptly and then turns around as Sandor returns to the clearing.

“No one following you that I can see or hear,” he tells Hother. “Still…might be best to go inside. I’ll see to the horses.”

“Come in to eat when you are done, Sandor,” Sansa tells him and turns back to her children. “Come inside, and tell me everything…oh, I cannot believe I am seeing you again after so long…”

When they sit at table, she uncovers the dish of watercress and chopped boiled eggs and wild onions. Hother thumps down a worn leather bag and pulls out bread, sausage, hard cheese, apples, and a skin of ale.

“There’s some wine in t’other bags; and some dried meat and fruit…so we don’t needs eat like it’s Winter rations,” he grumps.

“We do what we can, Uncle Hother. I thank you for the food.” She cannot resist tearing a piece of bread and sniffing it under her nose. “Mm …will you not eat, children?”

She sees that they are looking around at the cottage curiously and then back at her.

“This is the Umber hunting cottage; did your Great-uncle Hother not tell you? “

“You live _here_ …all the time, Mama?” Serena asks her worriedly.

“Your hair is different,” Eddard remarks now, “it’s not like mine anymore.”

Sansa gazes at them, and smiles gently. “A lot has changed for us, hasn’t it? I needed dye my hair so no one could recognize me, Eddard; and the cottage…well, I wanted to live here….if I could not live with you, because it was where your father said that he had sometimes been happiest. We stopped here together once...not so many years ago, but it seems longer: a lifetime ago. I… I like to remember him this way,” she tells them, and little Gretel pats her arm and nods silently.

Sandor enters the cottage now and pauses to sniff. “Is that ale?”

“Aye,” Hother tells him. “Sit and drink,” he pours from the skin into a tin cup on the table. “And listen: there’s much you don’t know, I reckon; and much you needs know. I was able to bring your children because I’m taking them North,” he begins, “well, taking your girls anyway; Eddard insists on returning to Last Hearth with me.”

“But why?”

“I said listen, girl, and I’ll tell you,” he snaps and pours himself more ale. “The sickness had reached the Dreadfort; despite Manderly closing White Harbor. Your lady sister has taken her boys to the Thenns to stay with Lady Alys; and Smalljon has sent Lyanna and their three to the Norreys, his mother’s people. He was going to send your children with them, but I told him I’d bring them to you: you see less folks here than even the Thenns and wildlings. That’s where we let out I was taking them, so it may be we have to go in time but for now…I figure we’re all safe here.”

“What of the queen and her council,” Sandor rasps bitterly, “and the spider? Won’t they learn of you going missing?”

Hother huffs as he swallows hid food. “Not bad this,” he says grudgingly of Sansa’s meal. “The dragon queen…well, I guess you can still call her that, though she’s down to one and no one knows where it’s gone to.”

“But- but she had three dragons,” Sansa remarks, “and they are supposed to live long lives: whatever happened?”

Hother smirks now, satisfied. “ _You_ ’re what happened, girl,” he tells her. “Your death’s what started it all turning against her. It stunned the whole realm: nobles and commons, it did; and singers started writing laments: _Lady Sansa’s Heart_ , and _The Widow Wolf_ , and such nonsense,” he grumbles and digs in to his dish again, talking with his mouth full. “It started people talking; saying the queen and her council were heartless and cruel; saying she was like to turn out mad…just like her father. For every noble who wanted their children at court, there were as many or more who didn’t. But none dared say anything until they sent for Lord Arstan Selmy’s granddaughter and told the old man the girl would have the honour of serving the queen. He asked flatly if the late Lady Umber had felt honoured.”

“Oh, my…” Sansa is dumbfounded. House Selmy was the family of Ser Barristan the Bold, who had supported Daenerys Targaryen’s claim to the Iron Throne; and yet their lord had defied the queen, and in Sansa’s memory.

“Serves them right,” Sandor rasps. “They brought it on themselves.”

“And that was _before_ the sickness came,” Hother continues. “When folks started dying, they blamed the Targaryen and her dragons…said she must’ve carried it with her ‘cause it started in Yunkai and went to Meereen and then across the Red Waste and the Dothraki Sea…everywhere she’d been. Nobles wanted their children sent home from Kings Landing but they refused: it spread first among the poor wretches in Flea Bottom and so they did nothing; then it started killing the soldiers and the rich merchants and the nobles. They closed up the city gates then but it were too late; and no one could get in or out…but for her dragons. They say folks got so angry they killed two of them.”

“How’d they manage: with spears? How did they get close without getting burned alive?” Sandor questions him.

“Poison,” Hother counters. “They left poisoned sheep carcasses on the tourney grounds outside the walls; some said poisoned meat was left outside the old Dragonpit too. The City Watch were near wiped out, so no one stopped them. Only the big black dragon lived…and it’s fucked off…beggin’ your pardon,” he offers a perfunctory excuse to Sansa and her girls, “and now so’s the little queen. Gone to Dragonstone to save herself, it’s said, and left her council behind: the spider and the Imp…though no one’s sure if they all live. Oberyn’s in Dorne: that much is known.”

Sandor nods and hold out his cup for more ale. “I said the bloody pale male would come, and it did. Might be hiding in the woods is the safest place now.”

“Meanwhile the Seven Kingdoms are falling apart. Most ports are closed, and so no goods are being traded nor’s food coming in. With commons dying, no one’s bringing in the harvest; so on top of the sickness there’s folks starving too. The North’s the safest place since Manderly shut himself up in his city with his people; but a bloody hoard of Freys had already come hightailing it to the Dreadfort from the Riverlands, with soldiers and servants in tow, so now it’s close.”

“Smalljon won’t let it reach Last Hearth, Mother,” Eddard assures her. “The garrison and father’s brothers patrol the Last River and the Lonely Hills: no one is allowed to pass onto Umber lands.”

“But…but what of Winterfell?” Sansa questions anxiously. “My mother, and Rickon, and- and Roslin and Robb’s daughters…everyone-“

“They’re not touched as yet,” Hother assures her even as he leaves the possibility open that it can change. “Lord Stark has patrols out and the Winter town’s not full, not like it is in Winter; but trade with the Iron Islands is cut off, though that’ll hurt them more than it will us.”

“How horrible,” Sansa says now. “We have been so sheltered here. Now I see that we have been fortunate. However will it all end?”

“It’ll end how it always ends, girl: some folks’ll die and others’ll live and those that do will pick up and carry on as best they know how.” He looks around the cottage appraisingly now. “Seems you’re better fixed so live this through and carry on after, so best you stay here for now. But know this, girl: there’s call to bring Renly back to the Iron Throne, and the North may be free to rule itself again. Even if it don’t,” he shrugs, “Renly’s not like to grudge you your life, is he?” he asks rhetorically. “You may yet live again, girl.”


	69. Chapter 69

Serena leans closer to her mother and whispers: “Where is the privy, Mama?”

“Oh…there is a chamber pot, and a screen,” Sansa tells her, and her daughter wrinkles her nose. “Serena, I fear if you would stay with us you will needs become accustomed to some hardships. We do not live in a lord’s keep here, I am afraid. Ready yourself for bed now, and I will brush your hair for you…and you too, Gretel.”

“ _I_ can brush Gretel’s hair,” Ivy offers, “and plait it too.”

“Is Eddard sleeping in the burned man’s cabin?” Serena asks her warily.

“His name is Sandor Clegane, Serena; and he has offered Eddard and Great-uncle Hother his cabin while they are here. Sandor will sleep in the stables.” She pauses as she brushes her daughter’s hair in the firelight and admires the luster and thick softness of the tawny brown fall down her back. “Does he frighten you, Serena? There is no need to be afraid. Sandor is a hard man; he has had a hard life…but he would never hurt you. He protects me; and you, my little bird, are so precious to me.” She hugs her impulsively now. “Come and sleep.”

Ivy shares her bed with Gretel, and they are already curled up and Ivy is whispering stories to the little blonde girl. Sansa holds her daughter close beneath the fur cover and strokes her soft hair.

“You have your father’s hair,” she murmurs to Serena and she feels her daughter’s breathing hitch.

“I- I am forgetting him. Mama,” Serena tells her miserably with a voice full of tears. “I forget Da…and you are gone too.”

“I am right here,” Sansa holds her tighter and croons comfortingly to her, “I am right next to you, my little bird; and you are always in my heart,” she tells her as Serena sobs softly. “Sh, it’s alright, Serena. I lost my father when I was young, and I sometimes forget him…but then it comes back to me. You will remember again, I promise: you will remember how he loved you…his little Umber girl.”

“Tell me, Mama; tell me about Da,” she whispers now.

“Oh, your Da was so big and strong, and loud,” she laughs softly, “and he loved you so very much. He was kind and generous and, well, your Da had a temper too, though never with you: he was always gentle with you. He had a beard and …and a great big laugh that made you want to laugh with him. He wore furs in Winter, and when you were a babe he would hold you in his great big arms and you would turn into him and clutch your small hand to his furs, like a little cub. You were so very small in his arms, and he would smile and laugh at your little nose and your pink cheeks and say you were his pretty little Umber girl. He would lift you high in the air, and you would giggle and wave your little arms. Then when you were learning to walk, he would set you down and hold out his arms to you so you would come to him…you would never come to me, or to Eddard; you only wanted your Da. _Who is my good girl,_ he would ask; and you would say _me_ so proudly…” She kisses Serena’s forehead now. “Oh, he was so proud of you: when you recited your lessons, and when he took you out on your pony and when you danced. Do you remember dancing with your Da when your brother brought Lyanna to Last Hearth?” she prompts her.

“Yes,” Serena looks up at her now in the dim firelight, “and I remember him dancing with you, Mama: you looked so happy, and Da was so _funny_. He smiled and drank from a big horn and he kept shouting for everyone to dance but he danced with you the most, Mama; and everyone cheered when you did: I remember.”

“There now, you see: I told you that you would remember.”

“Do you miss Da, Mama?”

Sansa smiles again and strokes her daughter’s soft cheek. “I do, Serena; and I wish we had more time together. I wanted him to see you and Eddard grow up and have children of your own, and I wanted to grow old with him,” she tells her wistfully. “But I like speaking of him to you,” she says and she realizes that does. “It…it was hard at first, and for a very long time to think of your father. It hurt so very much; but now that you are here with me I want to tell you everything about him, Serena.”

Serena hugs her closer and turns her face into Sansa’s shoulder. “I like to hear about him, Mama.”

“He would always lift you up when you ran to him,” Sansa continues, “and tell you that his girl was getting bigger. Sometimes he would turn you upside down to hear you laugh…”

…….

Sansa lies awake and stares at the rough ceiling of the cottage with its water stains from leaks in heavy rains and from being buried under snow in Winter. Serena sleeps soundly beside her, and Sansa’s heart fills to hear her deep breathing and feel her gentle warmth next to her. She had whispered to her about her father, and they had laughed softly and sighed at their shared memories until Serena had begun to yawn tiredly. But Sansa finds sleep elusive this night. She is excited to be with her children again, and she feels strangely elated to have spoken so much of her husband. Her mind is filled with moments and memories that she wishes to share with them; and for once they do not make her want to weep with grief and longing but instead have made her happy.

_We were so happy, my love; and I wish that we had more time, or that I had not wasted time feeling unhappy._

Her infidelity haunts her even now, because it is time she cannot have back. Still, when she remembers the girl she was, and the secret her husband and family kept from her about her marriage, she wonders how it could possibly have been different for her.

_It was wrong: you knew it was wrong, and yet you did it anyway because you wanted to feel loved._

_“Everyone wants to be loved.”_

_“Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.”_

_Curse her_ , she thinks of Cersei: her nemesis even now.

She is too agitated to sleep, and so she slips from her bed, careful not to wake her daughter or the wildling girls in the next bed, and lets herself out of the cottage and into the night air.

The waxing moon and the stars are bright in the cloudless sky but Sansa does not look up. Rather she is looking at the ground and thinking of the Greatjon, and of his first wife and marriage.

_He did not love her because she was not what he wanted; then I did not love him because he was not what I wanted. We were unhappy when we wanted to be loved, but then were happiest when we gave love._

Sansa stops and thinks. Mayhaps _that_ was the poison of wanting to be loved: the wanting for yourself; wanting some idea of what you thought love should be. She thinks of the love that she gives her children, freely and generously, because she wants to, and how happy that makes her.

She sighs audibly. She knows it is not enough: no amount of giving him what he wanted had ever made Joffrey love her, or would have helped her to ever love him. She is certain that generosity could not have made her love Prince Oberyn or Tyrion Lannister or whichever lord Queen Daenerys might have commanded her to marry. She has known love, but she is still not certain why, or how.

“Aren’t you happy, little bird?”

Sansa jumps and gasps though she knows the rasping voice can only be Sandor’s. He seems almost to take from out of the darkness and she feels a sense of discomfiting familiarity

“Forgive me, you startled me,” she tells him, “and of course I am very happy to see my children again. There is nothing else in this world that could have made me happier.”

“I meant aren’t you happy to get your wish: you’re a lady in a song now,” he jeers. “Girls all over the Seven Kingdoms are crying tears over Lady Sansa’s broken heart.”

She shakes her head slowly. “I would much rather have stayed with my children than had reason to hide away and let the world think that I am dead. I would much rather have kept my life and my freedom, and my name.”

He belches under his breath and Sansa sees his mouth twitch in the moonlight.

“Yes,” he seems to agree but his tone is harsh.  “There is no greater name in the North than Stark.”

“I am Lady Sansa Umber,” she reminds him.

“’Course you are: the _Widow Wolf_ … And if the dragon queen should be a queen no longer, Lady Umber, will you live again, or will you keep giving your heart to a dead man?” he demands angrily.

Sansa is stunned. “Oh,” she breathes, “how can to ask such a terrible question? I loved my lord husband truly…and so I mourn him truly as is _right_ ,” she tells him firmly. “Why should I forget him; and why should you resent him? He was a good man-“

“He was _great_ man!” He jeers again. “Is that not what they all say? The mighty Greatjon Umber, who captured the Lannister gold mines, killed the terrible Mountain in single combat and took his head to the King in the North who rewarded him with the hand of his lady sister and won her heart. Loved and mourned by all,” he spits. “He got to kill Gregor, he got to keep the gold, he got to bed the girl,” he rasps bitterly, “and I got exile.”

Sansa takes a deep breath. “Sandor…I am sorry-“

“I prayed to your bloody tree gods to watch over you,” he interrupts suddenly, “when I heard that you had been wed to him. Thought you were just being used again like a prize, to have been given to an old man like that. I remembered him from Pyke all right: big and loud and rough and drunk… Never thought-“ he breaks off now and looks away from her.

“You never thought what, Sandor? Please tell me,” she says softly. She remembers how Bran had told her that he had seen Sandor Clegane through the heart tree. _He says: If you’re there, watch over her._

He still does not look at her, and so she cannot see his full face but only a sliver of his burned skin and his ruined ear through the dark hair that falls over it.

“I told him what you did for me…in Kings Landing,” she tells him, “and so he was prepared to offer you a place at Last Hearth, if you should have returned to Westeros. He was grateful to you for having protected me.”

“And you?” he rasps harshly.

“You know that I am grateful: I said so before the entire court; and I said so when we met again, and I meant it,” she tells him simply.

“He protected you too,” Sandor notes dully.

“He did: that…that is why they wed me to him, to keep me safe after Kings Landing,” she confesses now. “Only, I did not know that for some time; and so I did not love him for some time…though he was kind to me, and gentle. I also thought that I had been a prize; but he cared for me from the very first.” She bows her head penitently to remember. “I wish that I had known.”

“Why?” he asks her now and she raises her eyes to his because he is looking at her again. “Why did you…care for him, then?”

Sansa knows with all her heart that he wants her to care for him, mayhaps even to love him; she has known this for some time. She did not realize that he was envious of her Greatjon for having won all that he had once wanted, and wanted still. She knows that he needs an answer, and when she thinks of how she came to love her husband she cannot help smiling wistfully.

“I think…it was because he let me love him: he was kind and generous and gentle, with me and with our children; he did not demand anything of me though…though I was always a wife to him,” she drops her eyes to say so. “In time, he stopped keeping himself from me, and this way I learned that he loved me; and so I learned to love him back. He gave me himself, and he gave me time,” she says now and steps closer to him so that he is startled and steps back from her and his eyes sweep over her warily. She reaches out a gentle hand to touch his arm lightly and feels the hard strength of his muscle and bone through the woolen shirt.

“I need time, Sandor,” she tells him feelingly, “and even so, I cannot say for certain how I will feel; I just know that I need time.” She does not say that she needs for him to give her more of himself, for she sees from his guarded expression that he understands too well.

He sniffs loudly now, and pulls his arm away as a stern look returns to his face. “Don’t know why I bloody asked; might be I’m not used to ale. You shouldn’t be out here anyway. Go back inside,” he tells her gruffly,” before you get skunked. Polecats come around at night,” he lectures her with a quick nod, “and make a stink that won’t wash out for a fortnight.”

Sansa holds her hands together before her and looks at him almost sadly. “Good night, Sandor.”

She turns slowly and walks back to the cottage, shutting the door softly behind her.

…….

The next morning, Sansa is sweeping away the cold embers of the heart fire when the sounds of clashing steel and loud grunts reach her ears. She hurries to the door and looks out and breathes a sigh of relief. Eddard turns and sees her there.

“Did we frighten you, Mother? We are only sparring.”

Sansa nods in acknowledgement. “I am no longer accustomed to the sounds of morning training, Eddard; I feared that someone had followed you here and…” She throws open her hands to show that her concern is simply a part of her daily existence: she must live in fear of being discovered.

“That is why I train, Mother: so that I might keep you safe; and Sandor Clegane has offered to help me.”

“That is generous of him, Eddard,” she replies and looks to Sandor, “and kind. We will dress and gather eggs to cook so that you may break your fast when you are done. Come, my girls,” she says to her daughter and the wildlings girls who have risen from their beds to look out at the men. “We have work to do as well.”

When they are all at table, Eddard sets his knife down when he is done and speaks to Sansa:

“I will needs return to Last Hearth within a fortnight, Mother. Our family’s wards are still at the castle, and my place is with them and with Smalljon. Father would have agreed that it is the right thing,” he tells her firmly; and though he is but two-and-ten, Sansa swallows her trepidation and is proud of him.

“You are right, Eddard: your father would expect you to stay with our wards, only…only I hope you will all be safe and well. You must let me gather enough blackthorn bark to send back with you for a remedy if any of you should be stricken with flux. The woods witches from beyond the Wall know of this remedy, and so you can say that you have brought it from one of them.”

Eddard glances at Uncle Hother who nods curtly.

“Thank you, Mother.”

“Can we go with you to gather herbs, Mama?” Serena asks and next to her little Gretel nods in agreement.

Sansa glances at Sandor now. “If Sandor Clegane approves, you may accompany me. He decides how to best keep us safe here.”

“Don’t see why not,” he fairly snorts, “if you keep quiet and keep your hoods up. Might be I’ll go with you: the ground’s rough in places and you don’t want to fall into the stream and drown.”

“Very well then,” Sansa concedes to his surly concern.  “Sandor will accompany us. After we clean up, you must don your cloaks.”

Hother thumps his cup down. “Best you learn what it’s like to live here, girls; so if you don’t like it we have time to take you further North.”

Serena looks to her mother and back at her great-uncle. “I want to stay with Mama,” she replies resolutely, and Gretel nods quickly beside her.

“Can you handle them?’ Hother asks Sandor. “Fine…but any whiff of trouble and I’m coming back to take you to your lady aunt with the Thenns. I’ll tell Lyanna to send you more of what supplies you need. Don’t know when it’ll be safe to come back…for them or for you.”

“Uncle Hother, I am just so very grateful to you for bringing them to me,” Sansa tells him I a voice nearly-hoarse from emotion, and he waves her away impatiently. She drops her eyes, knowing he has no tolerance for her tears.

“We’ll come back for you when it’s safe, Mother; and if it’s not…well, I know a way now that we can be together-“

“It was only idle talk from an ale-filled old man, boy: don’t start giving your mother grand ideas,” Hother grumps to Eddard, but her son ignores him.

“Father left us gold so that I might have my own household one day, and I shall build it here…on our lands; then I can keep you safe forever, Mother, like father would have wanted.”

Sansa’s tears well up again. Her son is so earnest and brave and pure-hearted; he does not know how the world truly is.

“Oh, Eddard…that would be lovely but I fear that I must needs stay hidden from the world, mayhaps forever…”

“It takes a many people to run a keep, boy, and a garrison to keep it safe: how will you hide your mother from them all?” Sandor asks him bluntly. “Wait until we know what her place in the world will be…before you go building castles out of thin air.” He turns to Sansa now. “Might be he has the look of his father…but he thinks like you, little bird.”

Serena furrows her brow at him. “ _I_ ’m little bird; Mama says I am.”

“Is that so? I’ve not heard _you_ chirping: do you have a head full of songs?”

“Serena, Sandor Clegane called me _little bird_ when we were in Kings Landing; I was a girl then and…and I wanted to fly away,” she tells her. Though it is not the truth, it is also not a lie.

“Did Mama sing for you?” Serena asks Sandor now.

Sandor’s stern face softens at her daughter’s question, and he looks to Sansa now with a look of gentle yearning that tears at her heart. “Aye…she did…once.”

“Will you sing for us tonight, Mother? Please,” Eddard asks her.

Sansa bites her lip and nods slightly. “Yes,” she tells him, and then she looks directly at Sandor with a ghost of a smile on her lips.

“I will sing for you gladly.”


	70. Chapter 70

“It be a pleasure to have you back in Last Hearth, milady,” Berena tells her kindly but wearily.

“I thank you, Berena,” Sansa tells her warmly, though it is still a shock to her to see the older woman finally showing her age after being away for so many years. She has slowed in her movements and her voice is not strong. Lyanna and Smalljon have needed another nurse for their sons in these past years, though Berena still oversees their upbringing and counsels Lyanna on matters regarding her pregnancies and in nursing her babes. Sansa fears now that it may be the last time she sees her friend again.

“You would have been proud of Serena: she learned her courtesies as much from you as from me, Berena. She will do well as the lady of Castle Cerwyn; though she is young, still,” she tells her.

Berena smiles proudly now. “I’m sure she were a lovely bride, milady: your girl grew up so like you…though she be her father’s child as well. And you did your duty well as Lady of Last Hearth though you were but a girl then; and so will your child.”

“She was lovely…she was so beautiful, Berena,” Sansa replies. “I wished so much her father could have seen her; he would have been so very proud and happy; though sad to let her go, I imagine.”

“I imagine he would: he loved her fierce. Your lord…forgive me, milady; her father left her a fine dowry, and Lord Jon did his duty handing his sister over to Lord Cerwyn. The young lord lost his own father, long afore Lady Serena did. I curse the Others for all the Northmen they took from us,” she notes sadly.

Sansa knows that the old woman is thinking of the Greatjon’s youngest sons by his first wife: young men that she had known since birth, more than she was thinking of the late Cley Cerwyn.

“Yes,” Sansa agrees, thinking of her brother Robb, “we are fortunate not to have lost so many to the pale mare. The South lost many more from sickness than the North had to the Others.”

The South of Westeros had been badly devastated by the pale mare: the sickness was thought to have killed over half the population of Kings Landing, rich and poor alike. And as Sandor had predicted, the port cities in the South were hit hardest. The Martells had closed both the harbor and the city walls in Planky Town, as had the Citadel in Oldtown, so that no ships entered the harbors and no one could enter or leave afoot or by horse. But despite precautions the sickness had reached villages and countryside as well. Septs had been overwhelmed with the care of the living, and the Silent Sisters had been burdened with the care of the endless dead. Finally bodies had needed to be burned when no one and no place was left to bury them. The situation had been similar but mercifully less dire in the Westerlands, Riverlands and the Vale. It did not end until the hot Summer finally ebbed: a short Summer of less than five years, but no one lamented its passing when the cooler temperatures brought a respite in the spread and severity of illness. In the North, only White Harbor and the Dreadfort had suffered badly. Lord Manderly had contained the spread of the pale mare by shutting up White Harbor; and soldiers from Hornwood, Winterfell, Karhold and Last Hearth had ensured that none left the Bolton lands for other parts of the North. Those that did not die of sickness had sometimes starved instead.

Through it all, it was thought that Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, ruled in Queen Daenerys’ absence. When a year passed without word from Dragonstone, she was presumed dead; and the council invited Lord Renly to resume his place on the Iron throne.  He agreed, and by the Autumn he returned to Kings Landing at the head of an army. Only after order was restored and safety secured did his queen, the Lady Margaery, and their children take their place at court. It was then that Rickon sent a raven pledging his fealty and renouncing his inheritance to the title of King in the North _if_ the king would pardon his sister, the Lady Sansa Umber, for feigning her own death, and forgive her family for protecting her. It had been done for love of her children, Rickon explained; and not from Northern rebelliousness against the throne.

Renly accepted and granted Sansa and all those who had hidden her pardon, including Sandor Clegane; and Margaery sent cases of Arbor Gold to welcome “her dearest friend Lady Sansa” back to life again. The Northerners had been astonished but happy to learn the truth, and many commoners had flocked to the side of the Kingsroad when they heard that Lady Sansa and her children and protector were passing from the far North back to Last Hearth to be reunited with her son. She was celebrated as a heroine for defying the dragon queen and staying near her family; and the singers hastened to write new songs of the life of their brave and selfless Lady Sansa.

Meanwhile, rumours abounded throughout the rest of Westeros that she had fled to Essos and hidden in a brothel; or that she had lived with the Nights Watch, disguised as a young man like brave Dany Flint. Others said she had lived with wildlings and still others whispered that she had fled to the Frozen Shore and lived beyond the Wall and was coming back as a wight. _It is a marvel that they do not accuse me of regicide_ , thought Sansa, so far-fetched were the stories about her. No trace of Dany or her last dragon had been found on Dragonstone; and so her disappearance was thought to be the gods’ revenge for her treatment of Sansa and the deaths of noble wards at court during the sickness.

But if Sansa and her daughter and her wildling ward were warmly welcomed back by everyone at Last Hearth, the same reception was not afforded her armed guardian. Most still knew Sandor Clegane as the Hound, and as the brother of the horrible Mountain and the sworn shield of the bastard King Joffrey. Everyone fell silent when he dismounted his horse, and when he entered the hall and then the family solar.

“Would have found it warmer at the bloody Wall,” he grumbled to Sansa. But neither she nor Eddard would hear of him leaving her side.

“You protected Mother, and Serena and Gretel. Your place is with them, Sandor,” young Eddard insisted, “with us. And when I come of age, I will ask Smalljon to build my seat at the hunting cottage, and you can join us there.”

“Eddard,” Sansa asked him, “are you quite certain? Surely your brother will need you here.”

“Smalljon has four sons, Mother, and all of Father’s brothers have sons and they live south of Last Hearth; we should have an Umber lord closer to the New Gift to protect our own people. They are sparse now, but there will be more when I settle there and we can trade with the Thenns and wildlings. We can clear land to plant and for grazing. And I will have a seat to take a bride, and have sons of my own,” he tells her importantly. “That is what Father would have wanted; that is why he left us the gold. Do you not agree, Sandor?”

Sandor stands taller to have Sansa’s son respectfully ask in his opinion, and he nods in agreement. “Aye, Lord Eddard: you should do what your father would have wanted you to do.”

“I’ve even chosen a name for my seat, Mother,” he smiles proudly to tell her, “I will call it Blackthorn…after the leaves you gathered there for me. But…but first, I wish to travel. I-” He hesitates and looks strained but he continues. “I- Mother, my friend returns to his father in Highgarden and…and he invites me to go with him. I have never left the North, Mother, and…and I would see some of the world before I take my seat. We cannot build before Winter; and we cannot go there to live without building and so…and so I wish to go South…for a time.”

Sansa’s heart tightens to hear him speak, to hear him express all the yearning to see the world that she once felt as a girl. _What good has ever come of a Stark going South,_ his father had once asked, and their son is half Stark.

“Eddard,” she breathes at last, “I understand that a young man would wish to see more of the world but…” But she cannot think of a reason to deny him save for her own fears; and she knows this is not enough. He is his father’s son, and an Umber and he is almost a man. Fearful she may be; but he must not be, not if he is to be lord of his own seat one day.

“But…but you must try to use some of your time to learn…if you will be master of your own seat one day. You needs learn from your travels, to be a good lord of Blackthorn. It is a fine name for a keep: strong and Northerner, like-“ _Like your father_ , Sansa thinks but instead says: “-like you, Eddard.” She sees Sandor Clegane watching her, and he nods slowly.

“It’s normal for a boy to want to want to make his own way, to feel like a man, little bird,” he tells her some time later as he lifts her to her saddle and onto her horse to take her and Serena for a ride in the forest.

“I know,” she replies quietly, “but I had hoped to spend time with him once we returned to Last Heart; not to have him leave for so long to go so very far away. I think now that mayhaps…yes, I think we should visit Winterfell. I have not seen my family in many years; and Serena can see her cousins and grandmother again. And Gretel can come with us… After all, we have all been so long hidden from the world.”

“Best you accept some might prefer that I stayed that way, little bird,” he growls in warning to her.

 Despite Sandor’s misgivings, they journeyed to Winterfell at the end of Autumn and arrived in time to attend Rickon’s wedding to Elena Glover. The celebration is well-attended by Northern lords and their families, and all are delighted to see Sansa and to meet her daughter, though some are heard to grumble either about her wildling ward or Sandor or both. But Rickon makes it known that they are welcome, and so they are. It is during the celebrations that Gawen Glover, his uncle Galbart’s heir to Deepwood Mott, asks for the hand of Robb and Roslin’s eldest daughter; and it is when the young Cerwyn heir first dances with Serena.

Sansa’s heart fills to see the shy glances and blushes behind their courtesies, and she remembers how it once felt to be young and yearn for love and to hope that it came with a pretty face and kind words; but she also knows that it is not enough. Her mother senses her concern, and reassures her.

“Cley Cerwyn’s son has spent much time here at Winterfell, Sansa; Castle Cerwyn is but half a day’s ride from here. He lost his father at a young age, much as Rickon did; and his mother, Lady Cerwyn thought they might make good companions for each other. He is kind and brave: he will make a good lord…and a good husband,” Lady Catelyn tells her.

But Sans is still hesitant. “He is young, Mother, and so is Serena. Let them wait. If they should come to truly care for one another, they can wed when she is six-and-ten…and not before. I will ask her brother, Lord Umber to withhold his consent until she is of a proper age to be a wife.”

Her mother’s face looks vaguely hurt as she replies: “As you wish, Sansa; she is your daughter.”

Sansa takes her mother’s hand and squeezes it now. “As I am yours, Mother; and I wish to do right by Serena, as you wished to do for me.”

She is walking in the godswood with Sandor the next day when she recounts her words to her mother.

“I’ll make bloody sure the boy never harms her: I’ve grown right fond of your little bird, little bird. But she and your little wildling already know that life is not all tourneys and gallantry; and I’ll lay odds they can spot a fool and a liar.”

“I expect that you are right, Sandor; but I fear that I shall always carry the memories of the very hard lessons that I have learned from that time…and after,” she remarks quietly. Then she stops before the heart tree. “My father would sit here, and I have prayed here myself.” She quirks a smile to remember Bran’s words about Sandor: how he said that he could see him through the heart tree asking the old gods to watch over her. She turns to him as he steps up to the weirwood.

“Had one of these in Pentos,” he tells her. “The house we were given by Renly had been built for a Northman sometime after the Dance of Dragons.”

Sansa looks surprised, and then not. “Of course, my ancestor Cregan was Hand to King Aegon III…for one day. They call it the Hour of the Wolf. Many Northmen who marched South with him stayed there after he returned to Winterfell, to spare their families having to feed them during Winter. Some were rewarded with positions for their service. One must have been set as the king’s envoy to Pentos.”

Sandor snorts in derision. “Another Stark. Bloody figures: it made me think of you, that old tree…especially those red leaves,” he says as he reaches to touch her hair but then stops himself. He has forgotten for the briefest moment to be guarded with her, as a shield should be with a lady. Sansa looks at him expectantly, but he takes a step back from her and jerks his chin. “You should put your hood up: it’s bloody cold out here. I shouldn’t have to think of these things for you,” he chides her roughly, “you’re the bloody Northerner.” And he walks away from her.

Late that night as she makes her way silently through the torch-lit hallways of Winterfell, she remembers a time after her son was born when she went to another man’s bed to be a wife to him, though she did not love him. Now she goes to a man’s bed because she loves him, though she is not his wife. He is stunned when she lets herself in and he tries to send her away, but instead she moves closer to him anyway and puts a slender hand against his cheek like she did the night the Blackwater burned. Sansa has not lain with man in many years and, though she wants him, she trembles; but so does he. His hands shake when he reaches for her, and his fingers over her skin are tremulous. But his kisses grow hungry and he pulls her closer and Sansa clings to him and whispers fevered words of love and want to him. There is pain, and it is over quickly, his want for her is so great; but she stays with him and strokes his hair and his skin and runs her hands over his hard limbs and body with its numerous scars and then she climbs onto him and takes him as a woman grown who has known love and wishes to share it with him.  His grey eyes gaze at her in the firelight, and his callused hands roam her body, gently at first and then firmly as he helps guide her to her peak and his. When she collapses into his arms, he speaks plainly:

“We’ll needs marry now,” he tells her bluntly, but she hears the tentative question in his harsh voice.

She holds him tighter for a moment, prepared that she may needs let him go. “You needs know, Sandor…there won’t be children,” she confesses sadly. “I understand if-”

He takes her face in his rough hands and makes her look at him. “You understand nothing, little bird, if you think that, or anything else, will make me change my mind.”

They speak to Rickon in the morning, and then to Serena and Gretel. Gretel is happy; but Sansa sees the dismay is her daughter’s eyes, though she forces herself to smile bravely. So she sends for her after a maid has dressed her and brushed her hair.

“Serena, please know that I will always love your father; but you also know that I was his second wife. Many people have lost someone they love, and some are fortunate to find love again; but that does not mean they have forgotten. I will never forget your father; and you may speak of him to me at any time. Sandor is fond of you; and he respects that you are your father’s daughter, and an Umber.” She puts a hand under her chin and raises her eyes to hers. “You are his little Umber girl, and mine…though not a girl anymore,” she whispers because Serena has flowered and the Cerwyn boy keeps finding reasons to visit Winterfell despite the deepening snowfalls that slow his ride and make him show up late at the Great Hall in a sodden fur cloak, looking, as Sandor disparagingly remarks, like an eager muskrat who swam a moat.

And so Sansa’s daughters and Robb’s daughters, and Roslin and Lady Catelyn, and Rickon and his wife stand in the newly fallen snow in the godswood as she becomes Sandor’s wife. He has only a plain cloak to drape about her shoulders but that is enough: his house is extinct but for him, and he cares nothing for formalities. He only wants her; and for the rest of the world to acknowledge that she is his. She is now Sansa Clegane.

They decide to stay in Winterfell until Eddard should return in the Spring, and they can make their home at the hunting cottage while his dream of Blackthorn is built. When Sansa suddenly misses her moon’s blood, she decides it must be due to Winter rations: Elena runs a stricter keep than Roslin did, to Sansa’s approval; and she knows from her studies that meager rations and weight loss and stop a woman’s moon’s blood. But her gowns grow tighter and then she is sick one morning, and then the next, and then she knows. Sansa has studied midwifery, but she does not understand how she can suddenly quicken again at thirty, and be a mother again at one-and-thirty.

Her eldest children are her husband’s: her _first_ husband’s; of that there was no question for they could not have been anyone else’s then. The child she lost she cannot ever know; she can only mourn its loss as she mourns the circumstances of its almost-being. Her ward is a child of wildlings who were lost to the Others and then to dragonfire: a gentle creature of no words but boundless love that she returns fiercely. Her youngest children are Sandor’s. She had told him that there would be no children, but then she gave him two…at the same time.

“It’s been known to happen, milady,” Berena tells her now after she and Sansa have put her now three-year-old twin daughters to bed in Serena’s old room at Last Hearth. “The wanting of children can strain the mind and body so much as to prevent the quickening; sometimes only after a woman gives up does it take hold again. Was it a hard labour for you…to bear not one, but two babes after so long?” she asks her delicately.

“In truth I had forgotten how hard labour can be; when I was once too young, I now feared that I was too old. But I am so happy, Berena. My brother Jon once reminded me that there were twins in our family, and now both my sister and I have been doubly blessed.”

“I’m happy for you, milady. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Berena.”

Sansa returns to her room alone. Gentle Gretel stayed with Serena at Castle Cerwyn, Sandor is with Eddard and they are helping to gather and prepare such supplies that they will take with them to Blackthorn on the morrow. When she turns to shut the door, she sees the old chest behind it in the corner and stops. After a moment, she opens the lid and sees that it is where she left it all those years ago. She reaches for it slowly, and feels the soft worn wool beneath her hands as she grips it tightly and lifts it to her face to inhale deeply. There is little trace of scent left, or else she has forgotten. She rubs the old brown tunic against her cheek and cradles it there. Then she puts it back gently and shuts the lid down again. Resolved, she takes her cloak from a hook and leaves the room.

The torches in the crypt sputter and waver as she passes by the vaults and tombs until she comes to the one she came to see. She tilts her head curiously to see her own name etched in the stone, as they would have needed to do to make everyone believe that she was truly dead and buried. _LADY SANSA UMBER_ it reads beneath her husband’s name; _born of House Stark_ is in smaller letters below. She reaches out to the stone now.

“Hello you,” she whispers tenderly. “I- I am sorry…I have not been to visit you for so very long…life…” She breathes a sigh and almost laughs. “Life has not been as I had thought it would be; but then it never has: you know that well. Our daughter is married now, my Greatjon… Oh, my love: you would have been so proud and happy to see her. She was so beautiful…she has your eyes, and your hair, and a wonderful laugh that I think must be from you. She is tall and graceful, but still willful when she wishes to be. She is in so many ways your little Umber girl, still; though she is Lady Cerwyn now. I told her how much you would have wanted to be there, to drape her in your family’s sigil and walk her to her husband in the godswood,” she sniffles, “and we both shed tears for missing you that day. Lord Jon did you proud as well, to bring her forth as a bride. She wore the very same cloak that you draped me in: do you remember? Of course you do,” she relents, feeling foolish; and she wrings her hands together now.

“I am- I have married again. I do not think you will mind so much; you may like him in some ways: he is fierce and brave, and he protects us. He has no use for pretty words or fine manners,” she laughs softly, “and…and he is good to the children; he respects that you are their father. He helps Eddard now to plan for his seat at your hunting cottage; and we shall live with him there. We have children of our own as well: two daughters; and I have named one Arrana, the very name that you liked, and the name I took for myself. Her sister is Aregelle: she was Stark who married a Cerwyn; Serena helped me to choose it. She has happy that I had finally given her little sisters...”

Sansa stops and bites her lip. “I am sorry….I am sorry that my failings should have hurt you as much as they hurt me. I wanted so much to give you more children, my love, I hope that I made it up to you in other ways. I tried, truly-”

She turns suddenly when she hears footsteps, and then she sees Sandor take shape out of the darkness.

“I went to check on the girls, and you weren’t there. I couldn’t find you,” he rasps flatly.

“I came to tell Serena’s father about her wedding; I did not think that you would mind,” she tells him.

“Don’t,” he answers shortly but then his mouth twitches when he looks at the grave.

“They chiseled my name here after I left for the Gift from Karhold. Arya had said they would send a horse’s bones back in a sealed case and claim that they were mine…though Lyanna says they never buried it here. I confess it is quite strange to look upon my own name here…when I am not here.”

“Aren’t you?” he asks with his grey eyes on hers.

She reaches for his hand. “I have a husband and children: my life is with them,” she assures him gently.

“Hm,” he barely replies. “I’ll leave you to finish then.”

“Wait,” she says as she still holds his hand, and with the other she touches the grave again. “I must go. Gods grant you sweet rest, my Greatjon. I do not know when I shall return; but when I do I will come to tell you of Eddard and Serena again. I promise.” She turns back to Sandor and smiles her gratitude for his love and his understanding. “I am ready now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the timeline of this chapter is not too confusing: it starts in Last Hearth where they stop before returning to the hunting cottage in spring and then flashbacks to when Sansa 'came back to life' the previous autumn and then through their time in Winterfell during Winter and then resumes with Sansa and Berena still talking.  
> I have tried to wrap up a lot in this chapter since we are nearing the end.


	71. Chapter 71

EPILOGUE

 

The crypt looks very much like the last time he saw it, he supposes; he had not given it thought again after the time he found her down here talking to him. She had taken his hand then, he remembers, and left with him and so he had never followed her down here again; though she visited every time they had come to Last Hearth. He made his peace with that long ago; or rather she made his peace for him.

It is cold, and damp: he can feel it in his bones, the ache in his shoulders that comes from standing straight like a damned soldier still, despite being close to seventy years now. His dark hair is grey, and the weathered wrinkles of his face from sun and cold have the odd effect of making his burn scars seem less severe. Might be he just doesn’t give a shit anymore. Age does that; or maybe it was all that love she had shown him that made it not matter anymore. These Northerners, and especially those Thenns and wildlings: the bloody buggers actually seemed to admire his scars. Sometimes it made him wish he’d known them all his life, but if he had then he would never have known the little bird.

“A pretty little talking bird,” he rasps now as he gazes on the stone slab.

 _Lady Sansa_ _UMBER_ _– born of House Stark_

“Sandor?’

“Lord Eddard,” he replies without turning from the grave. “Where’s Aregelle?”

“She is with my wife and our children. I told her that I would come to look for you. I knew where you were and I did not want her to come down here again today: she is too distraught. It cannot be good for her condition.”

“Aye, that’s true…” he replies.

“Sandor…are you certain that-“

“I said I was certain since we brought her here from Blackthorn; I’m not like to have her dug up again like some bloody shrub needs re-planting,” he rebuffs him harshly. Now he turns to looks at Sansa’s grown son and softens somewhat . “She was a Stark, and a lady: the Lady Umber of Last Hearth…this is where she belongs,” he tells him with some resignation.

Lord Eddard Umber comes to stand beside him and gently claps a large hand on his shoulder.

“Mother was your wife for over twenty years, Sandor; longer than she was married to Father,” he acknowledges respectfully. “Certainly Littlejon would allow that to be graven onto the stone…that she was once of House Clegane?”

Sandor looks up at him: the man is an Umber and as big and strapping as the lord brother they called Smalljon who died last Winter and the new Lord Umber who was his eldest son; near-giants, the lot of them, and covered in hair like pelts. Only Eddard has the auburn hair of his mother. He has a full beard now as well, and the little bird had said that he wore it like his father and uncles and cousins.

“Eddard, you may be as big and strong as your late lord father but you have your mother’s kindness,” he begins now.

“My father was kind too,” Eddard interrupts him firmly, “he would not have grudged you either. You loved my mother, and you protected her…just as he had.”

“Not enough,” Sandor rasps darkly now. “I warned her not to go off to some croft where they all had the fever. Told her to send someone else with those concoctions and remedies of hers; but she wouldn’t hear of leaving the family to fend for themselves…” His shoulders sag visibly now and his lip twitches.

“Mother could not have done differently,” Eddard chides him mildly. “Father said about Mother that her kindness was her greatest strength. But I saw her take a man’s head once, and then she defied the dragon queen and lived in the woods like a wildling when she’d been born a lady. She learned to be a healer; and she lived and worked with us at Blackthorn, though she could have lived an easier life here at Last Hearth, or at Winterfell. She was strong in other ways as well.”

Sandor grunts bitterly: “By the time she let on she wasn’t strong or well, it was too late. Even Aregelle couldn’t help her.”

Eddard squeezes his shoulder in comfort now. “At least my sister was with her, and she was with you and I, at the end, Sandor; it will be days still before Aranna arrives and mayhaps a sennight before Serena reaches us from Castle Cerwyn; she brings Gretel and they ride with Uncle Rickon from Winterfell. My grandmother, Lady Catelyn, is far too frail to travel. You’ll stay with us until then, won’t you? Mayhaps you will reconsider my suggestion,” he nods to the grave now.

Sandor shakes his head wearily. “This is House Umber’s crypt. I don’t belong here; and there is no House Clegane…not anymore. Might be it’s for the best too; Gregor the Mountain saw to that: we were up-jumped servants sworn to the Lannisters. That had meaning once, and pride even, under my father and grandfather; but not anymore. Not for years and years.”

Clegane’s Keep in the Westerlands had long since passed to another family, after Sandor had been sent into exile; and he had made no attempt to claim it again. Sansa and Sandor’s twin daughters had married: Aregelle to a grandson of Tormund Giantsbane, and so she bore the name Tormundson; and Aranna had married a Flint of the mountains, a younger son of Black Donnel of the First Flints. Both girls had studied herblore and midwifery with their mother, and were skilled healers. They were Northerners: they had the dark hair and grey eyes of the Starks though they’d got them from Sandor; and they showed no desire to live any differently than how they had been raised at Blackthorn, or to live anywhere but in the North. Their pups were wolves, he’d told the little bird countless times: more wolves than dogs. She would smile at him then, and say she liked dogs just fine because they would die for you and never lie to you. Then she would kiss him…every time. Might have been why he told her so often.

“No, I’m the last of my line,” Sandor tells Eddard decidedly now. “Bury me at Blackthorn. It’s the only real home that I have had: the home I had with your mother and sisters.”

Sansa and Sandor had lived with their girls in the hunting cottage as the tower at Blackthorn was being built. Eddard had decreed that it should remain as it always had when his father visited there, and so the walls had been built around it and it stood near the main door to the keep and across from the long hall built from logs that adjoined the kitchen. A smaller hall built onto Sandor’s old cabin housed some of the garrison that he commanded; the rest slept above the stable or armoury. Once the family moved into the tower, Sansa and her daughters used the cottage to dry and store and mix herbs, and to treat the sick and injured. Blackthorn was too small a keep to house its own maester; and so the soldiers and commons had come to them for care, or sent for them when they had need.

Eddard nods thoughtfully. “It pleases me that you think of Blackthorn as your home, Sandor; and I pray you know how grateful I am that you and Mother have lived there these many years. It made it more of a home for me, to have her there, so that I could also protect her as my father wanted. He- he told me when I was a boy that the Lannisters had hurt Mother, and that the King in the North had sent her to him to keep her safe. He honoured his pledge very seriously, even after his king was gone,” he looks from Sandor to his parents’ tomb. “And he loved her too.”

“She loved your father as well,” Sandor tells him curtly, “told me so herself once. Marrying me never changed that; I’m sure you know.”

“I did know, Sandor; but I also know that you and Mother were happy; and so I was happy for you. I know Serena was as well. We neither of us wanted Mother to be alone all her life, not once we were old enough to understand. We wanted her to love, and to be loved. Everyone loved Mother.”

“Aye,” Sandor rasps, “and she wanted to be loved, and to be kind and for everyone to be happy. There were those who tried to frighten it out of her, to beat it out of her even. I think they would have wanted her dead to keep her from believing that…but they couldn’t poison her no matter how they tried. She stayed sweet; and so your father was right that it was her greatest strength: she kept on believing in love and kindness.”

They pause now in silence. There seems nothing more to say.

“I- I would like to have a memorial to Mother at Blackthorn…mayhaps a stone marker in the garden. She loved the garden.”

Sandor nods thoughtfully. “Aye…aye, she did,” he rasps.

“And I will ensure that it graven with _wife of Sandor Clegane, first commander of the garrison at Blackthorn_.”

Sandor looks at his wife’s son now. He unable to express his gratitude with words; he has never been good at words of affection or gratitude, like the little bird, and so he nods curtly.

Eddard smiles mournfully and takes his hand off Sandor’s shoulder. “Well…I’ll leave you with her now. Goodbye, Mother,” he says hoarsely as he reaches to rub the stone gently. “I’ll be back to visit you again, and I’ll bring Serena with me.” He nods once to Sandor and walks away.

When he is gone, Sandor steps closer to the tomb and reaches tentatively to touch it as young Eddard did.

“Well, here you are, little bird. I’ve brought you back here, where you’re safe…and loved,” he acknowledges. “Never thought it would be me to go last but…things haven’t always turned out right in this life, we know that. He kept you safe when I couldn’t, and so I’m trusting him to do it again. Don’t know if I’ll ever come back here; our girls might want me to go live with them, but I’m like to stay on at Blackthorn…and think of you there with me. We were happy, weren’t we? I tried, little bird; I tried to make you happy because you made me happy. Might be I didn’t tell you enough, but you did. I loved you, just like you wanted to be loved. Damn me if I ever thought I’d get the bloody chance; thought I’d lost you for good and would never see you again. You didn’t just let me love you either: you…you loved me back…and I never thought that would happen neither. I was wrong; they were all wrong about you: though you only loved pretty things, that you had an empty head and no true heart. Well, you showed them all, little bird: you loved an old man and a dog; and we loved you back. You deserved it, you earned it…so you rest now.”

His cloudy grey eyes stray now to the Greatjon’s name on the stone: _Jon Umber – Lord of House Umber._

“You watch over her, you hear me? You honoured your word to her brother so now honour the same pledge for me. I know you can protect her, because you did for Gregor. Well, I owe you for that; and so I’ve brought her back to you. Make sure you love her. I know you can do that too.”

He lingers a long moment with his hand flat to the cold stone.

“Little bird,” he murmurs one last time.

Then he lifts his hand and turns to walk away, his booted feet scuffing against the hard stone floor as he leaves.

 

FINIS

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! That's it, that's all. Apologies if the epilogue seems anti-climactic but I felt I needed to wrap up the 'theme' of love-poison-sweetness-strength to which I have been trying to refer since I drastically changed the direction of this story from how I started. I also wanted to honour the Greatjon. [Also anyone re-reading this chapter and the last might notice that I edited them to mention Gretel, whom I had forgotten. *Septa Scolera rings bell* "Shame!" I also added mention of Rickon and Catelyn.]
> 
> Please let me say how incredibly grateful I am to all the ladies who followed and commented on this story from the start and even later. I loved and appreciated the feedback.  
> I want to give a special appreciation shout-out to Littlefeather for the wonderful picset she created on tumblr to accompany the fic: thank you, lovely.
> 
> 'Til next time: thank you again!


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